Genevieve Masefield was so relieved to see him when he called at her cabin that night, she flung herself into his arms. Dillman, now in formal wear, was pleased with the warmth of his reception. Pulling her close, he grinned appreciatively.
‘I take it that you missed me.’
‘Very much,’ she said, nestling into his shoulder.
‘What I missed was having dinner in first class.’
‘Is that all?’ she protested. ‘What about me?’
‘Oh, I missed you, as well, darling. That goes without saying.’
‘I like you to say it anyway.’
‘I just did,’ he pointed out. ‘What was on the menu this evening?’
‘Everything you could possibly want. It was a wonderful feast. The best meal we’ve had on a P&O vessel. The dessert was mouth watering.’
‘Don’t rub it in,’ he said, wincing slightly. ‘I had to make do with a cup of tea and a sandwich. The life of a steward in second class leaves a lot to be desired, I can tell you.’
‘What did you find?’
‘That the irascible Madame Roussel had the sense to lock her door this evening. I checked every cabin in second class while I was at it. All securely locked. No thief waiting to pounce.’
‘A wasted exercise, then,’ she said, stepping back.
‘Not at all, Genevieve. My simply being there acted as a deterrent. I fancy that we’re dealing with an opportunist. If a door is unlocked, he goes through it. If a purse is left unguarded on deck, he steals it. Do you see what I mean?’ he said, easing her gently away from him. ‘A professional would target a victim more carefully, only going for someone who would give them rich pickings.’
‘Madame Roussel would fit that description.’
‘I think that the thief was lucky there. When he let himself into her cabin, he couldn’t have known what he’d find. Madame Roussel had only been on the ship for a couple of hours.’
‘That’s true.’
‘How could anyone have learned that she kept valuables in her cabin? No,’ he decided. ‘Everything points to an opportunist’s crime. The thief didn’t realise that he’d strike oil on his first attempt.’
‘That rules out our theory about her mysterious friend,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t distracting her so that a confederate could search her cabin.’
‘I think not, Genevieve. How could he possibly know that she’d be foolish enough to leave her door unlocked? Mind you, I’d still like to find out who he is,’ he went on, scratching his head. ‘Why does a woman need to keep the name of her admirer secret? I find that odd.’
‘I have to do it all the time, George.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it? I wonder.’
‘We have good reason to conceal our relationship.’
‘Madame Roussel may have an equally good reason.’
‘I doubt that. She actually volunteered the information that she’d been drinking with a friend, remember, so we know the man exists. The problem is that she won’t divulge his name.’
‘There’s one obvious explanation, George.’
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘And to some extent, she looks the part. Madame Roussel wouldn’t be the first courtesan we’ve met in the course of our work. Yet somehow I don’t feel that’s the answer. If it had been, she’d never have mentioned this admirer of hers in the first place.’
‘No, discretion would be part of her trade.’
‘I daresay we’ll unmask the fellow in the end.’
‘Until then, they keep their secret. Just like us.’
‘Nobody must know that we’re man and wife, Genevieve.’
‘As long as you don’t forget.’
‘How could I?’ He kissed her on the lips. ‘Happy?’
‘Very happy, George. When we’re together.’
‘I only wish that I could stay.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Because it would be too big a risk. If a problem occurs in the middle of the night, Mr Cannadine would send someone to my cabin. How do I explain that I didn’t sleep there?’
‘In that case,’ she suggested, ‘I’ll come to you.’
‘No, darling,’ he said with regret. ‘We agreed on a plan and we must stick to it. Aden is only a few days away. We’ll have a whole week there before we pick up another ship. We can be together properly then.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘All we have to do is to catch this thief in the meantime.’
‘And hope that no more crimes are committed aboard.’
Dillman was confident. ‘I have a feeling that the worst is over,’ he said airily. ‘If we can reclaim the stolen goods, and get Madame Roussel off our backs, I fancy that we’re going to have a restful voyage.’
As instructed, the steward arrived early at the cabin with the breakfast. Balancing the tray on one hand, he knocked on the door with the other.
‘Breakfast, Mr Nevin,’ he called.
He used his key to unlock the door and went in, expecting to find the passenger still in his bunk. Instead, Dudley Nevin was sprawled out on the floor. The steward gaped in horror and almost dropped the tray. He backed out of the cabin as fast as he could.
It was shortly after seven in the morning. George Dillman had just finished dressing when the purser called at his cabin. He could see from Max Cannadine’s face that something very serious had happened.
‘Trouble?’ asked Dillman.
‘The worst kind,’ said the purser. ‘A murder.’
‘Oh, dear! Who was the victim?’
‘A first-class passenger – Mr Dudley Nevin.’
Dillman was shocked. ‘Mr Nevin? But 1 know him.’
‘Not any more, I fear.’
‘Where did it happen?’
‘In his cabin.’
‘How was he killed?’
‘Stabbed through the heart.’
‘Who discovered the body?’
‘The steward,’ said Cannadine. ‘He was badly shaken by what he saw. If I’m honest, so was I. This is a bad business, Mr Dillman.’
‘I’d like to take a look for myself. Have you called the doctor?’
‘He’s examining the body right now.’
They hurried along to the cabin and the purser let them in with his master key. Down on one knee, Dr Rory McNeil was still looking at the wound that had killed Dudley Nevin. When he was introduced to Dillman, he gave him a nod. McNeil was a slight, stringy man in his fifties with close-cropped ginger hair and a freckled face. The detective came over to kneel beside him.
‘What was the murder weapon?’ he said.
‘That,’ replied the doctor, pointing to a blood-covered knife on the other side of the cabin. ‘It’s a kukri – a weapon used by Gurkhas.’
‘Why is it lying over there and not beside the body?’
‘You’re the detective, Mr Dillman. I’m just a ship’s doctor.’
‘How long has he been dead?’
‘Difficult to be exact,’ said McNeil. ‘Twelve hours at least.’
Dillman took a closer look at the corpse. Dudley Nevin was wearing only a shirt, trousers, and shoes. One of his suspenders had broken and his collar had been torn. Dr McNeil had opened the shirt to expose the ugly wound in the man’s chest. There were also lacerations on the hands of the corpse. Dillman stood up.
‘It looks as if he put up something of a struggle,’ he concluded.
‘Then it’s possible that the people in the adjoining cabins may have heard something,’ said Cannadine.
‘Not if they’d gone off to dinner. Besides, if a violent disturbance had been overheard, someone would have reported it.’ Taking out a handkerchief, he crossed to the knife and picked it up by the handle. ‘Curved blade, thickening towards the end, and as sharp as a razor. This is designed to kill. It’s not the kind of thing you’d buy to peel an orange.’
‘Does that mean we’re looking for an Indian?’
‘I’m not so sure, Mr Cannadine.’
‘Who else would use a kukri but a Gurkha?’ asked McNeil.
‘It’s their preferred weapon,’ conceded Dillman.
‘That narrows the field immediately.’
‘No, Doctor. I don’t think it does. A man who owned this knife wouldn’t discard it easily. He certainly wouldn’t leave it close to a murder victim so that we could find it.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked the purser.
‘That somebody fled in a hurry. Look where the knife was lying. It’s almost as if the killer stabbed his victim, backed away from him, dropped the knife here, then beat a hasty retreat.’
‘I still think we might be looking for an Indian attacker – someone with a grudge against Mr Nevin. Do you know what he did for a living?’
‘He was a civil servant in Delhi.’
‘There’s a possible motive, then,’ said Cannadine. ‘We can run their country for them but we can’t stop them feeling resentful about it. Perhaps someone saw Mr Nevin as a symbol of British imperialism.’
‘There are plenty of those aboard,’ noted Dillman. ‘Why choose him when there are far more senior figures in the British administration? I don’t see this as a political assassination.’
‘I hope you’re right or we’re sitting on a powder keg.’
McNeil rose to his feet. ‘There’s nothing more I can do here,’ he said. ‘I’d like to move him to a place where I can clean him up properly. Also, he needs to be kept on ice.’
‘My advice would be to shift him very soon,’ said Dillman, ‘while most passengers are still in their cabins. We need to keep this as quiet as possible. If word gets out that a murder has been committed, the whole ship will be in a state of agitation.’
‘That’s the last thing we want,’ agreed Cannadine.
‘Where’s the steward who discovered the body?’
‘Still in my office. He’s been sworn to secrecy’
‘What about his duties?’
‘I’ll have a word with the chief steward, Mr Dillman. He’ll have to be told, and so will the captain. Including us, that makes six people.’
‘Seven.’
‘Who else?’
‘The killer, Mr Cannadine. Add my partner and that gives us a total of eight people. Let’s keep it to that, shall we?’
‘Yes, please.’
Dillman turned to McNeil. ‘Do you have a stretcher, Doctor?’
‘In the medical room,’ said the other.
‘If you could fetch it now, we’ll carry him out of here under a blanket. Where shall we take him, Mr Cannadine?’
‘I know just the place. It’s an empty storage room.’
‘Then let’s get him there as soon as we can,’ said Dillman. ‘And we must make sure that nobody comes into this cabin. If they see that blood on the carpet, they may get curious.’
‘This cabin will be out of bounds till we reach Aden.’
‘Then what?’ asked McNeil.
‘We unload Mr Nevin with the mailbags,’ said Cannadine, looking down at the corpse. ‘He must have nearest and dearest in England. The body will need to be shipped back there.’ He glanced at Dillman. ‘Did you say that you knew the chap?’
‘Yes, we met in Bombay as we were about to embark.’
‘What sort of character was he?’
Dillman recalled the last time he had met Dudley Nevin. They were in the second-class lounge together and the Englishman had reacted to the appearance at the door of a thickset man with a beard.
‘He was a frightened man,’ said Dillman, gazing down sadly at the body. ‘With good cause, it seems.’
Quickening her pace, Genevieve Masefield caught up with the other woman outside the first-class dining saloon. Tabitha Simcoe did not look overjoyed to see her.
‘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 apologise 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 travelling 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 humour until that moment in the second-class lounge when he recognised 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 murder!’ 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 judgement 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 enquiries, 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.
‘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 civilised 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. ‘Goodbye, 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 realised 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 you 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.’
‘It’s my favourite 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 brought it,’ said Morelli, proudly ‘Mr Nevin is a silly man.’
‘Why?’ asked Genevieve.
‘He was in a room with three beautiful women, and he paid no attention to them. Any other man would love to be where he was.’
‘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 are 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?’
‘He mumbled something about problems at work but I didn’t catch what he said. The worst of it was that he didn’t even apologise to Mrs Ackroyd. When we’d finished,’ recalled Constance, ‘he simply jumped up from the table and scurried off. Good riddance, I say!’ She slapped the arm of the Bath chair. ‘Full speed, Paulo. I need some fresh air.’
Genevieve stood aside so that they could get past her.
Dillman was perplexed. The man he was after was nowhere to be seen on any of the decks, yet he had to be on the vessel somewhere. The only explanation was that he was still in his cabin. The detective resigned himself to the fact that he might have to wait until luncheon before he caught up with the bearded man who had given Dudley Nevin such a jolt. Deciding to make one last circuit, Dillman went up the steps to the main deck. Footsteps echoed on the steel steps as someone came hurrying down towards him, and he all but collided with her. When he saw that it was Lois Greenwood, he laughed.
‘I’ll have to start wearing protective clothing,’ he said. ‘I think that you’re determined to knock me over.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Dillman. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘At least you weren’t on roller skates this time.’
‘I only put those on at night,’ said Lois. ‘But if you think I play a strange sport, you should see that man up on the main deck.’
‘Why – what’s he doing?’
‘Playing golf without any golf balls. He’s swinging his driver as if he means to send the ball ten miles, but the only thing he’s hitting is fresh air. He looks ridiculous.’
‘That’s the mark of a true fanatic, Miss Greenwood. In pursuit of their sport, they never mind looking ridiculous. You can’t expect him to hit golf balls. He’d lose them in the sea.’
‘I suppose not,’ she admitted. ‘Listen, have you seen that wonderful old Indian gentleman with the white beard – the one that predicts the future?’
‘Yes, his name if Gulgar Singh. He’s a mystic.’
‘I watched him earlier. People were giving him one rupee to hear him tell their fortunes. He went off into this trance for a long time. When he came out of it, he seemed to know exactly what was going to happen to people.’
‘He has a gift,’ affirmed Dillman, conscious that the Sikh had predicted a dreadful event aboard. ‘No doubt about that.’
‘Oh, I believed every word he told me, Mr Dillman.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When he saw me watching him, he said that he’d tell me my fortune for nothing. All that he did was to stare deep into my eyes – he didn’t look at my palm, or examine my tea leaves, or anything like that.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That something very pleasant would happen to me.’
‘And it was true,’ noted Dillman. ‘You ran into me again.’
‘This was at school,’ she explained. ‘How did he even know that I was still there? Mr Singh told me that I would go back to a very nice surprise.’ She giggled. ‘That’ll make a change. I’m usually in trouble with Miss Carisbroke – she’s our house mistress.’
‘Did Guljar Singh say anything else to you?’
‘Only that I’d do something very special on this voyage, something that I could be proud of – and 1 don’t think he meant roller-skating.’
‘What did he mean? Have you any idea?’
‘None at all, Mr Dillman. I’ll just have to wait until I do it.’
‘It sounds as if you had nothing but good news from Mr Singh.’
‘And it didn’t cost me a penny. Oh,’ she said, looking over his shoulder. ‘I’ll have to go, I’m afraid. Daddy is looking for me.’
Dillman turned round and scanned the deck behind him. ‘Which one is your father, Miss Greenwood?’ he said.
‘The one with the beard. He’s just coming past that life belt.’
Dillman was startled. The thickset individual in a white suit, who was picking his way along the crowded deck, was none other than the man whose presence on the ship had upset Dudley Nevin so much.