by Conrad Allen
“Don’t condemn the many for the faults of the few,” she said.
“Well, it does make me worry.”
“The irony is,” said Dillman, “that the one woman whom we did suspect of a crime turned out to be innocent.”
“Innocence is not a word I’d associate with Madame Roussel.”
“You’ll have to take that up with the second officer. Well,” he added, rising from his chair, “I think that we’re finished for the night.”
“Yes, time for me to turn in, as well—now that I’ve had the satisfaction of returning the three purses to their owners, and locking the jewelry away in my safe. What a day!”
“It has been rather eventful, hasn’t it?” agreed Genevieve.
“Yes, Miss Masefield. We started off with a daunting crime sheet, yet you’ve wiped it clean.” He shook hands with each of them in turn. “My heartiest congratulations—and thanks.”
“While you’re in a thankful mood,” said Dillman, remembering his promise to Morelli, “may I draw your attention to the work that a certain Italian in second class did for us?”
“I’ll speak to the chief steward tomorrow,” said Cannadine. “After what you’ve told me, Paulo belongs in first class.”
“Thank you. He was only demoted because he did what nobody else had done. He dared to look at Tabitha Simcoe as a flesh and blood woman, while she was presenting a very different face to the rest of us.”
“She took me in completely,” admitted Genevieve.
Dillman grinned. “I think it’s fair to say that you did the same to her,” he remarked. “What must she have thought when she found you searching her cabin?”
“I don’t think she mistook me for a new stewardess.”
“It must have been a terrible shock for her.”
“It was a terrible shock for me, George,” she said. “I thought she was safely out of the way in the lounge. When she came in through that door, my heart missed a beat.”
“You recovered very well,” said Cannadine. “It’s been a pleasure to watch you both at work. I do hope our paths cross again sometime.”
“So do we.”
“But next time,” suggested Dillman, “we’d be grateful if you could persuade your female passengers to behave themselves a little better.”
In the course of her voyage, the Salsette had passed a number of other ships, but when she reached the Gulf of Aden she joined a procession of vessels that were heading for the port. The sight of land brought most of the passengers up on deck. Lois Greenwood was one of them. She was chatting to Guljar Singh when George Dillman strolled over to them.
“Whatever did you say to Daddy last night?” she asked.
“Very little,” replied Dillman.
“You must have said something because he’s changed his opinion of you completely. He told me that you were a good man, and that he was wrong to forbid me to talk to you.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“So I struck while the iron was hot.”
“In what way, Miss Greenwood?”
“It’s not often that Daddy is in such a pleasant mood,” she said, “so I decided to speak my mind for once. I told him that it was unfair of him to confiscate my roller skates and to treat me like a child, when I’m old enough to have a child myself.” She giggled. “That really made him listen. He thought for a moment that I was going to tell him that he was about to be a grandfather.”
“I can see why he’d be upset,” observed Guljar Singh.
“All that I wanted was my rights,” said Lois, “and I spelled them out. Daddy is not the only person in the family who can make speeches, you know. The amazing thing is that it worked. He was so surprised that I’d answered him back for once that he admitted he’d been too harsh on me and promised to give me more leeway in the future.” She giggled again. “I felt so proud of myself for standing up to him.”
“There you are,” said Singh, chuckling quietly. “I told you that you would do something on this ship that would make you proud.”
“And I did—thanks to Mr. Dillman.”
“I only chatted to your father for a while,” said Dillman.
“You softened him up for me. He’s almost human this morning.”
On impulse, she reached up to put her hands around Dillman’s neck before kissing him on the cheek. Surprised at her own boldness, she blushed slightly, gave a nervous laugh, and skipped off along the deck. Guljar Singh was amused.
“You are very popular this morning, Mr. Dillman.”
“Not with all the passengers,” he said, thinking of the two women who were locked up in the cells. “And I don’t think that I’m Sukinder’s favorite person since I put her under arrest.”
“What will happen to Suki?”
“That’s for the magistrate to decide, Mr. Singh. In fairness to him, Major Kinnersley is taking full responsibility. As soon as the mail is unloaded in Aden, he’s sailing back to Bombay on the Salsette with her, so that his daughter can face justice in her own country. Given her age,” he said, “I suspect that she’ll be treated very leniently.”
“Suki is not a criminal. She was forced to do what she did.”
“I think that the major appreciates that.”
“Does he accept that she belongs with her family in India?”
“Yes, Mr. Singh.”
“That is good.”
He looked over Dillman’s shoulder and smiled serenely when he saw Genevieve Masefield approaching them. They exchanged greetings. Genevieve looked contrite.
“You will be glad to see the back of me, Mr. Singh.”
“Not at all,” he said. “You only did what you thought was right.”
“I misjudged you cruelly,” she confessed, “and I’m terribly sorry for that. I feel so guilty about it. Please forgive me.”
“You hear that, Mr. Dillman?” asked Singh, beaming. “This is the third apology I have had from this beautiful lady detective. Do you remember what I said to you the other day?”
“Oh, yes,” recalled the other. “I remember it very well. You told me that the English never apologize.”
“However did you make your partner do it three times in a row?”
“That’s easy,” said Dillman, winking at Genevieve. “I married her.”
POSTSCRIPT
When war broke out in September 1914, the Salsette continued her normal routine between Bombay and Aden. In November 1915, she made her first sailing from London to Bombay, taking her place on the Indian or Australian mail routes. In July 1917, sailing from London to Sydney via Bombay, and carrying onboard a large amount of money to pay the British garrison in Egypt, she was hit by a German torpedo some fifteen miles southwest of Portland Bill. Fifty minutes later, she sank. Fifteen members of the crew lost their lives.
About the Author
Conrad Allen is better known as Edward Marston, the Edgar-nominated author of the Nicholas Bracewell series and of several other historical mysteries. He lives in England.
Find out more about him at www.edwardmarston.com