It was ironic. Dillman had spent well over an hour looking in vain for the man, yet the moment he abandoned his search, the person he most wanted to speak to actually came up to him. The fact that he was Lois Greenwood’s father, however, posed a problem. Dillman was very fond of the girl and enjoyed his conversations with her. Unlike some English passengers, she was neither reserved nor condescending. He hated to think that her father might somehow be involved in the murder of Dudley Nevin. If true – and he had no firm evidence as yet – it would be a terrible shock for Lois to absorb.
The approach of a parent put her on her best behaviour. Coming to the bottom of the steps, she stood there demurely until her father reached her, then performed the introductions with great composure. Dillman shook hands with Sylvester Greenwood, whose grip was firm and whose sharp eyes searched the American’s face.
‘How do you do, Mr Dillman?’ he said.
‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’
‘Mr Dillman is an explorer,’ declared Lois. ‘He’s been everywhere.’
‘That’s not strictly true,’ said Dillman.
‘Yes, it is. You’ve even been to Australia.’
‘Your mother is looking for you, Lois,’ said her father. ‘You always disappear when she needs you. Now go back to the cabin and see what she wants, will you?’
‘I prefer to be out on deck where all the fun happens.’
‘Do as you’re told, please.’
‘In a minute.’
‘Now,’ insisted her father.
Lois gave up. ‘Yes, Daddy,’ she said, obediently. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dillman. I hope to see you later on.’
‘I look forward to that,’ said Dillman. As the girl scampered off, he turned to her father. ‘You have a charming daughter, Mr Greenwood.’
‘We think so,’ said Greenwood. ‘How did you meet Lois?’
‘Out here on deck.’
‘I trust that she hasn’t been annoying you.’
‘Not in the least.’
‘Lois is inclined to be a little forward and impetuous at times.’
‘We were all like that at her age,’ observed Dillman.
‘I wasn’t,’ Greenwood said sternly. ‘I wasn’t allowed to be.’
‘Well, I think your daughter is a credit to you. It’s a pleasure to meet her. She tells me that you’re a politician.’
‘I have the honour to be a member of Parliament.’
‘May I ask on which side of the House of Commons you sit?’
‘On the government benches, Mr Dillman. I’m a Liberal.’
‘Your party seems to have a very radical agenda, Mr Greenwood.’
‘Of necessity.’
‘I don’t know enough about British politics to make a comment, but I do admire your determination. You have to be courageous to take on entrenched attitudes.’
‘Change must come if we’re to have a more equitable society.’
‘England has always been so conservative by nature.’
‘It’s our major national defect, Mr Dillman.’
‘How does your daughter like having an MP in the family?’
‘I think she’s rather embarrassed about it,’ said Greenwood with a smile. ‘Or at least she pretends to be. I suspect that she has a hard time of it at her boarding school. The parents of the other girls tend to support the Conservative Party. Lois has to endure a lot of teasing.’
‘She strikes me as a resilient young lady.’
‘She handles it very well.’
If he had met Greenwood under other circumstances, Dillman felt that he would have liked the man. The politician was intense, but he was also pleasant, intelligent, and committed to his work. His affection for his daughter came through whenever he talked about her. Greenwood had a round face and a high domed forehead. The dark beard made him look like an Old Testament prophet. He seemed to exude integrity.
‘Actually,’ said Dillman, ‘I’m very glad that I’ve met you like this.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I believe that you know a friend of mine.’
‘And who might that be, Mr Dillman?’
‘Dudley Nevin.’
‘I can’t really claim to know him,’ Greenwood said evasively. ‘I only met the man on one occasion.’
‘When was that?’
‘You’ll have to ask Mr Nevin.’
‘Did you know that he was onboard this ship?’
‘I believe that I did glimpse him briefly. Why do you ask?’
‘No particular reason,’ said Dillman, watching him carefully ‘It was just that Mr Nevin mentioned your name.’
‘I’m not sure that I’d have recalled his name if you hadn’t told me what it was. Politics is a hectic business, Mr Dillman. I meet dozens of people every day. It’s impossible to keep track of them all. What I can tell you about Mr Nevin is this,’ he continued. ‘He belongs to my past. I’ve no reason to seek his company ever again.’
When the Ackroyds arrived at the cabin, Constance Simcoe was already seated at the table with the playing cards in front of her. Tabitha let the visitors in and exchanged niceties with them. Gerald Ackroyd had brought his ear trumpet with him. His wife had a competitive glint in her eye. They moved across to take their seats at the table.
‘I hope to have a better morning this time,’ said Mrs Ackroyd. ‘I was handicapped by my partner yesterday.’
‘We’ll not be inviting Mr Nevin back, I assure you,’ said Constance.
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’
‘Your husband will be our honorary male today.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Ackroyd, trumpet to his ear.
‘You’re an honorary male, dear,’ said his wife.
‘Am I? That’s nice.’
‘As long as you don’t mind being outnumbered by us.’
‘Good lord – no!’ he said. ‘A dream come true, what? Spent a whole lifetime dealing with other men. Quite a treat to be surrounded by the fairer sex.’
‘Would anyone like refreshments?’ asked Tabitha, still on her feet.
Ackroyd was hopeful. ‘Alcohol, you mean?’
‘Too early for that, Gerald,’ said his wife.
‘Pity.’
‘I’d like some tea, please.’
‘Then you shall have some, Mrs Ackroyd,’ said Constance, ‘and so will I. Paulo will be here directly. He knows that we’re playing bridge.’
‘You have a very obliging steward, Mrs Simcoe.’
‘Yes, Paulo is a gem.’
‘Mother always knows how to handle stewards,’ said Tabitha.
‘It’s something I’ve worked hard on over the years,’ said Constance.
‘Like your skill at the card table,’ noted Mrs Ackroyd.
‘That’s largely a combination of luck and guesswork.’
‘I wonder.’
‘You’ll probably beat us easily this morning.’
‘We intend to,’ said the other woman, grimly. ‘Don’t we, Gerald?’
Ackroyd blinked. ‘Didn’t quite catch what you said, Phoebe.’
‘We’re here to win, dear.’
‘Oh, yes. We want revenge. No prisoners taken, eh?’
He chortled merrily to himself as Tabitha took her seat opposite her mother. When Constance reached for the cards, Phoebe Ackroyd put a hand on them and smiled sweetly.
‘I wonder if we might play with our cards today,’ she said, opening her purse. ‘Unlike Mr Nevin, they never let us down.’ She put her own playing cards on the table. ‘Do you have any objection?’
‘None at all,’ said Constance.
‘Nor me,’ added Tabitha.
‘And I have no objection either,’ announced Ackroyd, laughing. ‘I mean to say, it’s not as if the cards are marked, is it?’
They met in her cabin to review the case and to discuss the way forward. Dillman gave her a more detailed account of the murder, and showed her the two photographs he had found in Nevin’s billfold. He also told her about his suspicion of Sylvester Greenwood. Listening to the evidence, Genevieve was uncertain.
‘A member of Parliament, involved in a murder?’
‘Why not?’
‘It seems so unlikely, George.’
‘I’m not saying that he actually committed it,’ said Dillman.
‘Then who did?’
‘I don’t know yet. An associate of his, perhaps?’
‘What was the motive?’
‘Hatred. I saw it clearly in Greenwood’s eyes when he spotted Mr Nevin in the second-class lounge. Nevin saw it, as well. That’s why he was so rattled.’
‘There’s no question about that, George,’ she said. ‘I spoke earlier to Constance Simcoe. According to her, Mr Nevin was far too upset to play bridge properly. Yet, when he had breakfast with her daughter, he’d been in a very friendly mood. What happened in between?’
‘The encounter with Sylvester Greenwood.’
‘There might have been something else.’
‘I don’t rule it out,’ said Dillman, ‘but I intend to keep Lois’s father under scrutiny. For her sake, I hope that he turns out to be innocent.’
‘When you searched the cabin, cash had been stolen.’
‘Yes, Mr Nevin’s billfold was empty.’
‘Monetary gain is just as strong a motive as hatred,’ she argued. ‘I wonder if all the crimes – the two thefts and the murder – can be the work of the same person.’
‘I think that’s highly unlikely.’
‘Is it? Supposing that the thief was caught in the act of stealing by Mr Nevin? There may have been a struggle, and in the course of that a fatal wound was inflicted.’
‘You’re forgetting something, Genevieve.’
‘Am I?’
‘Mr Nevin was already in the cabin,’ said Dillman. ‘Look at what he was wearing. He’d never be seen in public like that. And no matter how distracted he was, he wouldn’t have left his billfold unguarded for any thief to walk in and take. Mr Nevin was killed by someone he knew.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because he wouldn’t have let a stranger into his cabin. The door hadn’t been forced. The lock was sound. The only way that the killer could have got in was by invitation.’
‘Unless he was already in there when Mr Nevin returned.’
‘In that case, he’d have been more likely to stab his victim in the back. No assassin gives his man a chance to defend himself. And what killer would wait for Nevin to take off his coat and tie before attacking him? No, Genevieve,’ he said. ‘It had to be someone known to him.’
‘Sylvester Greenwood?’
‘He’s our only suspect at the moment.’
‘But there was bad blood between him and Mr Nevin.’
‘Definitely. I could sense the antagonism between them.’
‘Why would Mr Nevin let an enemy into his cabin?’
‘Good question.’
‘What’s the answer?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Dillman. ‘I just have this strong feeling that Mr Greenwood was lying to me. There’s a definite history between the two of them. I’m wondering if he went to Nevin’s cabin yesterday to resolve their quarrel, and talked his way in there.’
‘Was the murder premeditated?’
‘Somehow I don’t think so.’
‘Whoever went into that cabin was carrying a weapon.’
‘That doesn’t mean they intended to use it, Genevieve. We’ve had to deal with homicides before. As you know, killers very rarely oblige us by leaving a murder weapon behind for us to find.’
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘It’s such a valuable clue.’
‘My guess is that an argument developed, the knife was drawn, and Mr Nevin was killed in the ensuing struggle. Discarding the kukri, the murderer then grabbed the money in the billfold and vanished.’
‘That doesn’t sound like the action of an MP.’
‘He’s a powerful man, Genevieve. Strong enough to get the better of someone like Nevin. I could see that.’
‘But he has too much to lose.’
‘Only if he’s caught,’ said Dillman. ‘Mr Greenwood doesn’t even know that there are detectives aboard – I was very careful not to break cover. If he is somehow implicated in the crime, he thinks he’s got away with it. I want to keep him in that frame of mind.’
‘How will you go about stalking him?’
‘I may have to use his daughter. It’s not something I want to do because I’d be deceiving her, but friendship goes by the board in a murder investigation.’
‘What about me?’
‘I fear that you’ll have to concentrate on the thefts, Genevieve. From now on, I’m going to have my hands full.’ He gave an apologetic grin. ‘Madame Roussel is all yours.’
‘I was afraid you’d say that.’
‘What about the lady whose purse was taken?’
‘That was Mrs Lundgren,’ she said. ‘I’d much rather deal with her. She’s the first to admit that it was partly her own fault. She left her purse on a bench on deck while she stood at the rail. Mrs Lundgren is not the problem. The one who’ll hound me is Madame Roussel.’
‘It may be time to call on her neighbours,’ he suggested. ‘See if anyone in the adjoining cabins saw anything on the evening when the crime was committed. It means that you lose your anonymity, but only in second class. Nobody in first is aware of your real reason for sailing on the Salsette.’
‘It was to be close to my husband.’
‘And to help him uphold the reputation of P&O.’
‘That, too, of course.’
‘So let’s get on with it, shall we?’
‘What’s your next step?’
‘To track down that elderly couple I saw talking to Mr Nevin.’
‘Were they friends of his?’
‘He called them acquaintances,’ said Dillman, ‘and I’ll settle for that. Right now, I’m ready to talk to anyone who can give me information of any kind about Mr Dudley Nevin.’
Sylvester Greenwood was still strolling around the deck when his daughter rejoined him. Delighted to be back out in the fresh air again, Lois looked around to see if she recognised anyone. She gave a cheery wave to Guljar Singh, who responded with a dignified bow. Greenwood noted the exchange of greetings.
‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘Guljar Singh,’ she replied. ‘He’s a mystic.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve talked to him, Daddy. He’s also a fortune-teller. When he saw me watching him earlier, he made some predictions about my future.’
‘Indeed?’
‘He said that I’d do something to be proud of on this ship, and that I’d have a pleasant surprise when I got back to school.’
‘How much did he charge you for this fortune-telling?’
‘Nothing, Daddy It wasn’t like that.’
Her father was cynical. ‘He’s just a confidence trickster.’
‘No, he isn’t!’
‘Nobody can predict the future with any accuracy.’
‘Guljar Singh can. You can feel this strange power that he has.’
‘I think you were taken in,’ said Greenwood. ‘The old man is probably a fraud. Forget him, anyway. Did you do what your mother asked you?’
The girl sighed. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Your uncle deserves a letter of thanks.’
‘But Mummy was writing one already,’ complained Lois. ‘Why did I have to write to Uncle David, as well?’
‘Simple courtesy. He went out of his way to make your visit a memorable one. When we get to Aden, the two letters can go straight back to Bombay on the Salsette.’
‘I wish that I could.’
‘So do I, Lois. The trip was a revelation.’ He glanced across at Guljar Singh, who was now talking to a group of Indian passengers. ‘Perhaps the old man was right. You have done something to be proud of on this vessel. After two days of putting it off, you finally wrote to thank your uncle.’
‘I want to do something much more special than that, Daddy!’
‘I was only teasing.’
‘I want to save someone’s life,’ she said with passion.
‘Calm down, Lois.’
‘Guljar Singh is a genuine seer. What he told me will come true. Look at the respect those men are showing him,’ she went on, pointing to the little entourage. ‘You ask Mr Dillman. He believes in Mr Singh.’
‘I’m glad that you mentioned Mr Dillman.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘He’s such an interesting man, isn’t it?’
‘Very personable,’ conceded Greenwood. ‘What does the fellow do exactly?’
‘He works for the family firm, I think,’ explained Lois. ‘They make large yachts. Mr Dillman crossed the Atlantic on one when he was only ten. He’s a real sailor. That’s why he seems so at ease on a ship.’
‘What was that about Australia?’
‘That’s where he went before he came to Bombay. He must be very rich if he can afford to travel round the world like that.’
‘How did you meet him?’ said her father.
‘Out here on deck.’
‘Did he approach you?’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Lois, thinking of the nocturnal collision with Dillman. ‘I sort of got into conversation with him. He’s such a charming man, isn’t he?’
‘That’s beside the point,’ her father said seriously. ‘I’ve warned you before about speaking to strangers. You must be more careful, Lois. You’re far too unguarded.’
‘Mr Dillman was a perfect gentleman.’
‘It was still wrong of you to befriend him like that.’
‘Why?’
‘And to get involved with that old man over there.’
‘Guljar Singh told me my fortune. It was exciting.’
‘That’s what I’m complaining about,’ Greenwood said patiently. ‘Your constant need for excitement. It worries your mother to death.’
‘Mummy worries about everything.’
‘Lois!’
‘Well, she does,’ insisted the girl. ‘When she read my letter to Uncle David, she worried that I’d been too effusive. It was the best holiday I’ve ever had, and I wanted Uncle David to know that.’
‘Coming back to the point at issue,’ he said, ‘I want you to restrain yourself in public. We’re on show as a family, Lois. If you shake hands with every Tom, Dick, and Harry that you meet on the ship, it lets us down badly. Don’t you understand that?’
‘No. Where’s the harm in making new friends?’
‘It’s the way that you make them that disturbs me. If it goes on like this, you’ll have to spend more time with us.’
‘That’s unfair!’ she protested. ‘I love strolling around on my own.’
‘Then be more discreet.’
‘You mean, that I can only talk to innocuous old ladies?’
‘That’s not what I mean at all,’ said Greenwood, raising an admonitory finger. ‘There are people of your own age onboard. If you need company, get to know some of them.’
‘But they all look so dull,’ she said scornfully, ‘especially the boys. I prefer to be with people who’ve done something in life. People like Guljar Singh, who has a kind of holiness about him. Or like that nice Mr Dillman. I’ve never met an American before.’
‘I think that you should keep away from both of them, Lois.’
‘But they’re my friends.’
‘No, Lois,’ he corrected. ‘They’re casual acquaintances, and that’s a very different thing. They’re complete strangers to whom you had no business talking in the first place. I won’t tell you again,’ he went on, raising his finger once more. ‘You’re a young lady, remember. It’s high time you started behaving like one.’
Genevieve had little success. When she called at the cabins adjoining the one occupied by Madame Roussel, she found only one person there. He was a pale-faced Dutchman, who suffered from seasickness and who had hardly ventured outside his cabin since they had set sail. He was unable to help Genevieve. She was about to knock on another door when Madame Roussel came around the corner. The complacent smile on the Frenchwoman’s face disappeared at once.
‘What are you doing, mademoiselle?’ she demanded.
‘Pursuing my investigation.’
‘You have news for me?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Genevieve. ‘But we are making progress.’
‘That other detective, your partner, he said he will get my jewellery back.’
‘We will, Madame Roussel.’
‘When?’
‘In the fullness of time. Please try to be patient.’
‘I will not wait much longer.’
‘We won’t let you down.’
‘I am told this thief, he struck again.’
‘That’s right,’ said Genevieve. ‘A Norwegian lady named Mrs Lundgren had her purse stolen on deck. She left it on a bench for a couple of minutes while she stood at the rail with her husband. When she came back, the purse had gone.’
‘How many more things will this thief steal?’
‘None, I hope.’
‘Then catch him and lock him up.’
‘It’s not as straightforward as that, Madame Roussel. We have to watch and wait. We have to build up intelligence about the two thefts.’
‘What more do you need?’ asked the Frenchwoman with a dramatic gesture. ‘I leave my cabin, the thief goes in and steals my jewellery. Find this criminal and punish him.’
‘We’re on his trail, I assure you.’
Madame Roussel was unconvinced. ‘You have done this before?’ she said, clearly doubting Genevieve’s competence.
‘Done what?’
‘Worked on the ship as a detective?’
‘Yes, Madame,’ replied Genevieve. ‘I was employed by Cunard for over eighteen months and made dozens of Atlantic crossings in that time. Mr Dillman and I have worked for P&O since last autumn.’
‘And you have actually caught thieves?’
‘Without fail – thieves, pickpockets, cardsharps, blackmailers, and we’ve even solved a number of murders.’
‘Murders!’ gasped Madame Roussel, a hand to her neck. ‘Such things happen onboard a cruise ship?’
‘Only very rarely.’
‘I thought I am safe when I step on the Salsette.’
‘You are,’ Genevieve reassured her. ‘Completely safe.’
‘Mon Dieu! I just have the terrible idea.’
‘About what?’
‘That thief, the one in my cabin. What if I came back and found him with my hatbox? Is possible he might have attacked me.’
‘Luckily, that didn’t happen.’
‘No,’ said the other with a shudder, ‘but it makes me think. When we sail to Bombay from Aden, we had no trouble. No thieves, nothing. I felt very safe. But now, it’s different.’
‘Does that mean you sailed on the Salsette before?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle. In first class.’
‘Why were you going to Bombay?’
‘It’s not for you to know,’ retorted the other, tartly. ‘Just do your job, please, and leave my private life alone.’
‘Of course, Madame Roussel.’
‘And get my things back soon or I make the complaint.’
‘Mr Cannadine is all too aware of the difficulties we face.’
‘I will not bother with the purser,’ Madame Roussel said grandly. ‘I will speak to the person in charge and tell him what I think of his detectives. I will report you and your partner to the captain!’
Dillman found him in the second-class lounge. The man was so absorbed in what he was reading that he did not see the detective approach. It was only when a shadow fell across the book that he looked up.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘I believe so,’ replied Dillman. ‘I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time, please. My name is George Dillman.’
‘Then you’d better sit down, Mr Dillman.’
‘Thank you.’ He took a seat. ‘May I know your name, sir?’
‘Archibald Sinclair.’
‘Well, Mr Sinclair, I couldn’t help noticing that you were talking in here yesterday to someone with whom I’ve become acquainted.’
‘Oh, and who was that?’
‘Dudley Nevin.’
‘Yes,’ sighed the other. ‘Poor Dudley. Not one of my successes.’
‘Successes?’
‘He was a Wykehamist, you know’
‘I didn’t know,’ admitted Dillman. ‘To be honest, I only met him recently. What exactly is a Wykehamist?’
‘A former pupil of Winchester College – it was founded by William of Wykeham in the fourteenth century, you see. He was Chancellor of England for a time, and Bishop of Winchester for over thirty-five years.’ He lifted up his book. ‘I taught classics there. That’s why I’m the only person on this ship with his head in a copy of Cicero’s De Inventione.’
Dillman was not surprised to hear that the man had an academic background. Sinclair had a long, thin, earnest face with intelligent eyes, peering through wire-framed eyeglasses and surmounted by wispy silver eyebrows. Silver hair was scattered indiscriminately across his pate. There was a scholarly roundness to his shoulders and a cultured tone to his voice. Dillman could understand why Nevin had not described his old classics master as his friend. Even in retirement, Sinclair maintained the authority gap between master and pupil.
‘I take it that Mr Nevin was not the most gifted student you ever taught,’ said Dillman.
‘Oh, he was gifted,’ explained the other, ‘but far too wayward. Dudley could never apply himself. He was interested largely in the pleasures of life and, as Cicero has warned us, voluptas est illecebra turpidinis.’
‘You’ll have to translate for me, Mr Sinclair.’
‘Pleasure is an incitement to vileness. I became so frustrated with him that I made Dudley write it out three hundred times. It did not, alas, do the trick. He continued to go astray.’
‘It’s something of a coincidence, you running into him like this.’
‘Not really, Mr Dillman,’ said the other. ‘I’ve always tried to keep track of my former pupils – even the more slothful ones. Paradoxically, it’s often the latter who shine in later life, while the true scholars waste their talents in unworthy professions like popular journalism.’
‘Would you say that Mr Nevin shone?’
‘Fitfully. But he was a Wykehamist, so I followed his career. My wife and I had always promised ourselves that, on my retirement, we’d visit India. Since I knew that we’d be in Delhi for a short time, I wrote to Dudley to forewarn him.’
‘Did he reply?’
‘Yes,’ said Sinclair. ‘Eventually. He offered to buy us dinner one evening. And – mirabile dictu – he proved that he had learned something during my lessons, after all. On the back of the envelope, he wrote the Latin tag from Cicero that I made him copy out three hundred times.’
‘He obviously didn’t hold a grudge against you.’
‘I found that heartening.’
‘When did you discover that you’d be sailing together from Bombay on the Salsette?’
Sinclair removed his glasses and studied Dillman for a moment. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions?’ he wondered.
‘Purely out of interest.’
‘There’s more to it than that, Mr Dillman. There’s nothing I’ve told you that Dudley couldn’t have volunteered for himself.’
‘All he ever talked about was his job in Delhi. He hated it.’
‘You’re evading my question, sir.’
Sinclair was too clever a man to be fooled by glib answers. As a former teacher, he had spent a lifetime listening to excuses dreamed up by erring pupils and his instincts had been sharpened in the process. Dillman decided that he would have to tell him a measure of truth if he wanted any further cooperation.
‘I work for P&O,’ confessed Dillman. ‘I’m a detective.’
‘Dear me! Is Dudley in some kind of trouble?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out, Mr Sinclair. Needless to say, I’m speaking to you in the strictest confidence. I can do my job much more effectively if the passengers are unaware of my role on the ship.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Sinclair, putting on his glasses again, ‘I appreciate that. Have no worries on that score, Mr Dillman. I’m as close as the grave. Our conversation will go no further than this lounge.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What precisely has Dudley done?’
‘He seems to have fallen in with bad company,’ said Dillman. ‘That’s why your remarks about his time at school were so valuable. You’ve been a sort of character witness.’
‘His character did have severe defects, I fear.’
‘What did he do when he left Winchester?’
‘He went up to Cambridge to read jurisprudence, and spent three years indulging in the very pleasures that Cicero and I had warned him against. He got a poor degree. We don’t expect that of Wykehamists.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘He drifted from one job to another.’
‘In the law?’
‘For the most part, Mr Dillman. Then he dabbled in politics.’
‘Supporting the Conservative Party, I assume.’
‘Of course,’ replied the other. ‘For all his faults, he hadn’t allowed himself to be corrupted by Liberal values. His father and grandfather were military men who’d both served in India. It was a family with real backbone. When he stirred himself into action, Dudley displayed authentic Nevin spirit. I think it’s the one thing he did that his father could approve of wholeheartedly.’
‘His dabbling in politics?’
‘To do him justice, it was rather more than that.’
‘Oh?’
‘He stood for Parliament in a by-election.’
‘Really?’ said Dillman in surprise. ‘I would have thought his attitude a little too flippant for something as serious as that.’
‘Dudley gave a good account of himself, I’m told. He fought hard to retain the seat for the Conservatives but he was beaten by a small majority. Now, if you really want a coincidence, Mr Dillman,’ he went on with a high-pitched laugh, ‘I can offer you one that will astound you.’
‘Can you, Mr Sinclair?’
‘The Liberal candidate who actually won that by-election is also on the ship – a fellow by the name of Sylvester Greenwood. What do you make of that, eh? Old adversaries, locking horns once again.’
Sitting in the purser’s office, the woman was in tears. When she was introduced to Genevieve Masefield, she dabbed at her eyes with a scented handkerchief and made an effort to control herself.
‘Will you get it back for me?’ she pleaded. ‘Everything of any real value to me was in that purse, Miss Masefield. It’s not the money I worry about but the photographs. Some of them are irreplaceable.’
‘We’ll do all we can to retrieve them, Mrs Verney,’ said Genevieve.
‘Just give us the details,’ suggested Max Cannadine.
‘Where and when did this theft occur?’
May Verney blew her nose into the handkerchief before launching into her tale. She was a stout Englishwoman in her forties with a pudgy face that was furrowed by anxiety, and a habit of adjusting her hair with her right hand as she spoke. Her story bore some similarity to that of Mrs Lundgren. Like the Norwegian passenger, she had had her purse stolen on deck.
‘It was right beside me,’ she explained. ‘I was reading in a deck chair, and I must have drifted off to sleep. When I woke up, the book was still in my lap but my purse had gone.’
‘And you reported the theft instantly?’ said Genevieve.
‘Yes, Miss Masefield.’
‘I can confirm that,’ said the purser. ‘Mrs Verney came in here a few minutes ago and I sent for you at once. The theft must have occurred sometime in the last half hour.’
‘I couldn’t have been asleep for more than twenty minutes or so,’ insisted Mrs Verney. ‘I never doze off for any longer than that.’
‘Were there many people on deck?’ asked Genevieve.
‘Dozens.’
‘Was anyone sitting or standing close to you?’
‘Lots of people.’
‘Can you remember any of them, Mrs Verney.’
‘Only that ancient Indian gentleman.’
‘Who was that?’ said Cannadine.
‘And old man with a white beard. My husband said that he must be a Sikh because of his turban. The man is a fortune-teller, it seems. I heard him saying that he could predict the future.’
‘How close was he standing to you?’
‘Very close, Mr Cannadine,’ she said, brushing a curl back from her forehead. ‘When I fell asleep, he was no more than a couple of yards away. When I opened my eyes, both he and my purse had vanished.’