“Strange and significant, since nobody wore fancy dress at dinner. The parade is scheduled for half-past nine this evening. That being so, I doubt whether there would be any point in asking you to attend the parade in order to identify the costume, since, if robbery was intended, the pirate costume will not appear in the parade, or will have been altered,” said Dame Beatrice.
“Then what to do? All cabins must be searched immediately,” cried Mrs. Solomons.
“That is the one thing we want to avoid if we can,” said the Commander. “I assume that, if we can get back your property, you will be prepared to dispense with any further enquiry?”
“So I get my rubies I am satisfied.”
“You say this girl signed the book?” said Dame Beatrice. “Have you this book with you?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, but I’m afraid it won’t help,” said the second purser wretchedly.
“Why not?”
“Well, as you see, Dame Beatrice . . .” he opened a large ledger . . . “the name she wrote is that of Miss Leah Solomons, and, of course, I didn’t dream of questioning it.”
“Because, until this evening, Miss Solomons was not known to you by sight?”
“Even if she had been,” said the unfortunate young man, “I doubt whether I’d have recognised her in that beard and with the eye-shade, you know.”
“It is not that you play a joke on me, Leah?” demanded her mother, sharply.
“Not my idea of a joke, Mummy, as you know perfectly well,” said the composed and beautiful girl.
“No, no, of course not. Besides . . .” she peered at the open page of the ledger . . . “not your writing. Well, what for we should wait? I want my rubies and quick, isn’t it?”
“We shall do our best, with Dame Beatrice’s help, Mrs. Solomons,” said the Commander. “But now, if you want your dinner, I think you had better get along to the dining-saloon.”
“Come along, Mummy,” said Leah. “We can’t do any good by remaining here.” She led her parent away. Binns, who had opened the door for them, closed it with a look of relief.
“Any hopes, Dame Beatrice?” asked the Commander, without much expectation of receiving a favourable reply.
“I have one hope, at present, but it may lead nowhere. Could you do without this ledger for a quarter of an hour or so? I should like to study this signature more closely.”
“You think you might recognise the handwriting of this false Miss Solomons? Then you believe you know who she is?”
“It is a long shot, but worth trying. I believe I have a signature on my dinner menu which may guide me. A great many of us signed one another’s programmes this evening, so a pointer may be provided. One thing, I think, is certain. Whoever made this ridiculous attempt is an amateur. I suppose,” she added, turning to the second purser, “you are certain that it was a woman?”
“Well, unless the chap was as clever as Danny la Rue, it certainly was a woman,” he replied. “And if a man wanted to deceive me, would he have been made up as a pirate? Surely he would have chosen a woman’s costume?”
“You certainly have a point there. One thing I find extremely puzzling. How did the thief obtain possession of Mrs. Solomons’ receipt for the rubies?”
“Her daughter accepts responsibility for that. Mrs. Solomons got her to bring the necklace to the office, so, of course, I handed her the receipt. She says she meant to give it to her mother, but, in the excitement of going ashore, forgot to do so, and left it in her handbag.”
“And then?”
“That is all we know.”
“But she must have left her handbag lying about, if somebody was able to abstract the document from it.”
“I know, and she admits she did put it down for a minute, but the fact doesn’t help us. There are a thousand passengers on board. One thing: the fancy dress business lets out the crew and the stewards, and that’s a blessing,” said the Commander, “although, of course, a mixed one.”
Dame Beatrice returned to her stateroom with the ledger. She already had a slight but definite idea of the identity of the thief. She had noted with what reluctance Mary Cowie had consented to sign other people’s programmes at dinner. After spending some time in making a close comparison of the signatures on her programme with the forged signature in the ledger, she wrote a note and rang for the steward.
“I want this taken to Miss Mary Cowie,” she said, “I do not know the number of the cabin, but it is on the port side on C deck.”
“It was only a joke,” said Mary Cowie, feebly. “I found the handbag on a deck-chair near the outdoor pool, but, of course, as the pool was drained and everybody was changing to go ashore, there was nobody about. All I did was to open the bag to see who the owner was, so that I could return it . . .”
“It didn’t occur to you to hand the receptacle over to the deck steward and allow him to find the owner? That, it seems to me, would have been a more sensible procedure.”
“He wasn’t there. Anyway, I found that the bag belonged to Leah Solomons and then I—well, I found the receipt. I knew what it was for, because Mrs. Solomons had broadcast it all over the ship that her stones were safely locked away in the purser’s office, so I thought—just for a joke—I’d go and claim them, and—and it came off. Is she—do you think she’s going to turn nasty?”
“What did you do with the handbag?”
“I left it just where I’d found it, but I kept an eye on it, to make sure nobody made off with it, you know, and in less than five minutes Leah herself came along and picked it up.”
“Well, now that you’ve had your joke, you had better return the rubies, had you not?” Dame Beatrice turned a bland, enquiring countenance to the white-faced girl.
“All right. I’ll go and put them in the Solomons’ cabin while they’re having second dinner,” said Mary, most reluctantly.
“I think not. Some person less innocent than yourself might decide to visit the cabin while the owners are absent. I think you should return the necklace in person.”
“Oh, I can’t! I couldn’t! She might think—she might accuse me . . .”
“Well, she would be quite right, wouldn’t she?” said Dame Beatrice, with ruthless accuracy. “Very well. You may hand the rubies over to me. In the ensuing transaction you shall remain anonymous—this time.” To herself she said, as she returned to her stateroom after handing back the rubies to the chief purser, “Well, I have made an enemy of poor little Cowie.”
A number of passengers of both sexes had chosen to dress up as pirates for the fancy dress parade, but Mary, who was one of them, wore neither beard nor eye-patch, and there was little chance that anybody would connect her with the rubies. She was not a prize-winner, but Roger’s Neptune costume came in for some acclamation although, to his chagrin, his prize was listed as the one given to the youngest competitor.
Chloe Cowie had elected to represent the goddess Artemis. Looking at her large limbs, deep bosom, and also at the bow and arrows she carried, Dame Beatrice’s memory went back to the strange expedition which, many years before, had been led by Sir Rudri Hopkinson. Chloe strikingly resembled his daughter Megan, and Megan, with a long-bow, had committed what might be called a judicial murder. Dick had been in love with Megan at the time and, with foolish chivalry, had confessed to the matter before Dame Beatrice confronted Megan with the truth.
The situation was intriguing, as Chloe was related to the Hopkinsons. It would account for Dick’s being so much attracted to her, especially as she so closely resembled the woman whom, at one time, he had so much wanted to marry. Dame Beatrice found herself wondering whether he had kept in touch with Megan. Her mother, according to him, was living in Switzerland and her brothers were in America. Where Megan herself was domiciled had not been disclosed, and Dame Beatrice wondered whether this omission had been made deliberately and whether Dick was secretly still in touch with Megan.
CHAPTER TWO
Terpsichore, the Muse of Dance and Song
&n
bsp; “Whereon innumerable strangers resorted from far countries, adventuring themselves by long journeys on land, and by great perils on water . . .”
At Naples there was a choice of shore excursions. Dame Beatrice had opted for Pompeii, with lunch at Amalfi and a drive back along the magnificent coast road between Amalfi and Sorrento. Mary, who had longed to visit the Isle of Capri, found herself swept off by her aunt to Solfatara and Pozzuoli. Roger, who had set his heart on making the ascent of Vesuvius, was booked for the Pompeii excursion and was inclined to be critical and disgruntled in consequence.
Dame Beatrice, who had been following the affair between Julian and Hero with a sympathetic but ironic eye, was not in the least surprised when, as soon as the ship’s party had left the motorcoach (which had brought them at speed along the Autostrada Napoli–Pompei) and had walked through the tunnel at the Porta Marina, the amorous couple contrived to give the rest of the party the slip, leaving her in charge of the boy.
She was more amused than displeased by this, since Roger, with her, had long since abandoned his natural defensiveness, but she realised that, so far, one of the Apollo pilgrims had been proved guilty of misappropriation and another could be accused of dereliction of duty. The temptation, in both cases, she thought, must have been severe. Mary must surely long to escape from her aunt’s domination and achieve financial independence, no matter by what doubtful means, and as for Julian, he had perceived the necessity for making hay while the sun shone, since, in a few days’ time, his rival Simonides, with better looks and far more money, would reappear on the scene and compete with him for Hero’s favours. Julian, Dame Beatrice thought, would have been more than human if he had ignored the chances which Fate might toss in his way before the ship docked at Piraeus.
She was soon bored with the Forum, with its triumphal arch of Germanicus and its skeletal remains of the basilica and she also paid scant attention to the temple of Venus, badly damaged by the earthquake of A.D. 62 and not fully repaired by the time of the eruption of 79. At the temple of Apollo, on the other side of the road, she paused, reflected, and then, with a profound genuflexion, laid at the feet of a splendid statue of the god the bouquet of flowers which an itinerant vendor in Naples had persuaded her to purchase and which she had longed to dispense with ever since.
“I say,” said Roger, interested in this votive offering, “you don’t really believe—I mean, you’re not superstitious or anything, are you?”
“I think not; nevertheless, in view of the nature of our pilgrimage, I feel that nothing is lost by placating those powers of which we know nothing, but which took their authority, in times past, from the fervour of their worshippers. In other words, I am tired of carrying the bouquet, and this seems a suitable spot at which to discard it,” said Dame Beatrice.
They followed the guide and the rest of the party, and were shown frescoes and baths, houses and shops, the theatre, the great Palaestra, and the amphitheatre, and also the stepping stones across the street where the Via di Stabiae meets the Via dell’Abbondanza. Above and beyond all this was the ever-present, looming, incalculable mountain with, literally, its pillar of fire by night. Roger kept eyeing it wistfully. He was obviously bored by what he had seen of Pompeii.
“The rich people’s houses are very fine, and all that,” he said at last, “but aren’t there the other sort? You know, with rude pictures on the walls and little cubicles?”
“There are at least two of the type you mention. One is the Tavorna Lusoria, to which the more prosperous citizens resorted and where their owings can still be seen chalked up,” Dame Beatrice replied. “It combined the attractions of public house, gambling den, and place of assignation, as you suggest. Then there is the less discreet and possibly less expensive Lupanare, in which the obscene frescoes to which you refer are to be found on the walls of the ground-floor passage.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Yes, years ago. They are unremarkable and are difficult to decipher. I fear they would neither add to your knowledge nor captivate your imagination.”
“I don’t suppose they’d let me see them, anyway. It’s rotten being only fourteen. What do you think Suffolk is up to? Does he want to marry Hero? They’re always about together. I’ve slept on deck twice, just to oblige them, but I don’t know what Mr. Dick would say if he knew.”
“Dear me! I trust they were duly grateful to you for your co-operation.”
“I think Suffolk’s an ass. How does he know I won’t tell my father? Not that I shall, of course. There are better ways of going about things. It gives me a hold over Suffolk, though I don’t suppose I shall use it—put any pressure on him, you know—but it’s as well to have power, isn’t it? I like to feel I’m top dog, especially over him.”
Dame Beatrice mentally added a potential blackmailer to her list and found the addition stimulating. The criminal classes, she reflected, were going to be well represented on the Apollo pilgrimage.
At dinner that night there were only Dame Beatrice, Roger, Chloe Cowie, and Mary at table. The two people who made up the number necessary to complete the muster seemed to have decided to remain ashore, and Julian and Hero, having returned to the ship with the rest of the motorcoach party, had changed into evening clothes and gone off to sample the pleasures of Neapolitan night-life ashore.
Mary, warily suspicious of Dame Beatrice since the episode of Mrs. Solomons’ rubies, seemed tired. Her aunt, on the other hand, was wearisomely loquacious on the subject of Solfatara and its bubbling-mud sulphuric wonders. Roger, who disliked both women, launched into a description of the friezes in the House of the Mysteries at Pompeii and contrived to invest these with a pornographic quality which was quite uncalled for. This imaginative exercise fascinated Dame Beatrice and outraged Chloe Cowie.
“How could you have taken him to such a place?” she demanded, when Mary had gone to bed and Roger had left them in order to attend a film show, the only form of ship’s entertainment offered for that evening.
“It was not I, but the guide,” Dame Beatrice mildly explained, “and the frescoes are particularly fine. In short, I am afraid that the naughty child—who, no doubt, is tired and therefore mischievous, for the day has been unusually hot for the time of year—was compensating himself for failing to observe some graffiti which, of course, I did not take him to see. It is interesting, though, is it not, that the Roman ceremonies of initiation into the cult of the Mysteries (based, one supposes, on those of Eleusis) resembled so strongly the initiation of present-day witches to a coven?”
“I know nothing of either,” said Chloe shortly, “and I find the subject distasteful.”
The ship left Naples at six in the morning and made her leisurely way to Palermo, where she was to stay for thirty hours. There was only one shore excursion advertised, and Dame Beatrice had not booked it. During the gentle sag southward to Sicily, deck competitions were played off, the outdoor pool was popular, and after a typical day at sea the ship docked at just after four. As no shore excursion was scheduled until the following morning, most of the passengers stayed on board for tea, but early in the evening many of them went ashore. Among these were Julian with, this time, Mary. He had been at her side all day, while Hero sulked in a deck-chair and did not appear either at breakfast or lunch.
Roger, who had made friends with some of the crew, had often climbed up inside the slightly canted mast by way of an iron ladder and emerged at the crow’s nest, a vantage point from which he could survey much of the seascape and chat with the sailor on duty. There was nobody up there while the ship was in port. Dame Beatrice refused to join him and Hero found her seated in the almost deserted lounge.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “Julian takes charge of Roger, I hope. It is not right he leaves you to look after him at Naples.”
“He had an excuse, no doubt,” said Dame Beatrice, leering kindly at her. “Did you and he have a pleasant day?”
“Ah, you are joking with me, and I do not care for jokes. D
o you go ashore tomorrow? I know you have not booked the excursion.”
“And you? What are your own plans?” She guessed that Hero and Julian must have quarrelled.
“I shall join the others. It may be an embarrassment to Julian to have me with him as well as that stupid, sheep’s-eyed Mary, and I understand that we go five people in each car. We shall be a merry company.” She laughed sardonically.
“I sincerely hope so, and I agree that Julian should make himself responsible for Roger. It is quite right of you to suggest it,” said Dame Beatrice. Hero stood up.
“Oh,” she said, “I see that here comes the mutton-lamb aunt, so I will leave you. She will talk about her books.”
Chloe Cowie bore down upon Dame Beatrice as Hero left by another doorway, and seated herself amply on a settee.
“You know,” she said, “I really do feel I owe you an apology. I’m sure you’re going to be sweet enough to accept it.”
“With pleasure,” Dame Beatrice replied, “except that I have not the least idea what you mean.”
“Oh, my dear, how forgiving you are! I’ve been talking to the first officer—such a very nice man—and I’m afraid I’d got hold of the wrong end of the stick about those wonderful, idealistic frescoes in the Villa of the Mysteries. I had no right, simply no right at all, to speak to you about them as I did. It is only that I do so dread to think of innocent young minds being corrupted that I did not stop to choose my words.”
“If you think Roger’s mind could be corrupted by any frescoes, let alone those in the Villa of the Mysteries, you cannot know very much about the mentality of a boy of fourteen,” said Dame Beatrice, with a crocodile leer.
“Oh, I realise that, really I do. Boys of that age are precocious little monsters! Well, may you and I be friends? Do say we may! Please do!”
“I am not able to commit myself so far. I do not make friends, only acquaintances and enemies.”
Lament for Leto (Mrs. Bradley) Page 4