[Inspector de Silva 06] - Passage From Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  Chapter 10

  ‘As you can tell, William Petrie certainly doesn’t mince his words in my presence now,’ said de Silva when he came to the end of recounting the interview to Jane.

  They sat in the sunshine as the afternoon drew to its close. A hum of voices and laughter came from some couples playing a game of quoits further along the deck. Other passengers watched, some of them taking shots of the play with their cameras. It reminded de Silva that his own hadn’t come out of its case since they had gone ashore at Bombay.

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t see you as a subordinate any longer.’

  ‘I hardly think so.’

  ‘He and Lady Caroline were very welcoming last night. They didn’t need to invite us if they hadn’t wanted to. I think they’re different from Archie and Florence – more liberal in their outlook – certainly Lady Caroline is.’

  ‘I thought you liked Archie and Florence.’

  ‘Oh, I do, and at heart, I think you do too; even if they do drive you mad sometimes.’

  De Silva chuckled. ‘I suppose I do. When you get to know them better, they both have good qualities.’

  ‘Well then, who’s next?’

  ‘The canon, George Ryder. Petrie wants me to see him alone. He’s concerned that if he’s too often absent from his social engagements, it will start to raise suspicion.’

  ‘If everyone on the ship is as acute as Mrs Pilkington, I’m afraid there may be speculation anyway,’ said Jane.

  ‘Let’s hope they’re not.’

  ‘And after Canon Ryder?’

  ‘Mrs March and her fiancé. And after that, we have the romantic novelist.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a pity she doesn’t write detective stories, or she might be a help.’ He squeezed Jane’s hand. ‘But thankfully, I have someone who reads them.’

  The deck quoits players must have finished their match for they were shaking hands and gathering up their equipment. It was time to dress for dinner. De Silva stood up and offered Jane his arm.

  Strolling along the deck in the direction of their cabin, the fast-ebbing light was changing the cobalt-blue sea to indigo, and the sky was a haze of lilac and pink that deepened to crimson on the horizon as the sun set.

  ‘Let’s stay and watch the sun go down,’ said Jane.

  Arm in arm, they leant against the rail. Again, de Silva thought of his camera, sat on the bedside table in their cabin. But there would be little point in fetching it; a sunset photographed in black and white would be a pale reflection of the real thing.

  The sea and sky seemed to hold their breath, then with the suddenness that was so characteristic of the tropics, the dark waters swallowed the fiery disc.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Jane. ‘When they’re so spectacular, I don’t think I’ll ever tire of watching sunsets.’

  ‘Neither will I.’

  He frowned. ‘I’m sorry that this holiday hasn’t turned out quite as I planned.’

  ‘It’s hardly your fault, dear. Anyway, I’m relying on you to find the murderer by teatime tomorrow, then we needn’t be troubled any longer.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m afraid I may not be able to live up to your expectations.’

  ‘Poor Mr Pashley. I shouldn’t treat his death so lightly. I suppose there must be someone who will mourn him.’

  ‘At the moment, there doesn’t seem to be a queue.’

  ‘Lady Caroline was telling me that as well as the articles he wrote for The Monocle, he’d published a number of very scurrilous diaries. That kind of thing doesn’t tend to make a person popular.’

  De Silva frowned. ‘It does puzzle me where Pashley’s money came from. The clothes and other possessions I found in his cabin were all very high quality and must have been expensive. Your favourite novelist, Mrs Christie, may make a lot of money from her detective stories, but I believe she’s the exception.’

  ‘Did Captain McDowell have any information about who was to be notified back in England?’

  ‘Only Pashley’s housekeeper and his solicitor. He owned a flat in a part of London called Chelsea.’

  ‘That’s a popular area for artists and writers, but not all that expensive, so his fancy possessions may be deceptive. Perhaps he had family money, or one of the newspapers he wrote for helped with his fare and expenses. After all, they’d want him in Cabin Class.’

  ‘Very true.’

  ‘What’s been done with his body?’

  ‘It’s being kept in the ship’s clinic until Captain McDowell decides what to do with it. Now, I think that we both deserve a good dinner and some dancing this evening.’

  ‘That would be lovely. I saw on the ship’s programme that Harry Delaney and his band are playing for us again tonight.’

  ‘Then let’s forget about Charles Pashley for a few hours and enjoy ourselves.’

  Chapter 11

  The following morning, de Silva sent a message to George Ryder’s cabin, but the steward returned, saying Ryder wasn’t there.

  ‘The steward on duty on the corridor thinks he often goes to the chapel, sir,’ the man said. ‘Shall I look for him there?’

  ‘No, I’ll go myself.’

  It was the first time that de Silva had entered the ship’s chapel, although Jane had been to a service. For a moment, he took in the quiet beauty of the dark panelling and well-polished pews. Four elegant brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The two furthest from the entrance illuminated the intricate ironwork of the altar rail and the richly embroidered red and gold altar cloth. Above the altar hung a large painting of Jesus ascending to Heaven in the company of angels. The smell of incense made de Silva’s nose prickle.

  There was a creak; someone was getting up from one of the pews towards the front. He wore a dark suit and a dog collar. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Do you need any help?’

  De Silva suppressed the urge to recoil. One side of the man’s face was horribly scarred, the skin puckered and raw from the corner of his left eye to his jawline. De Silva wondered if it was an injury he had received in the war. He must be in his late forties, so he could easily have seen active service.

  ‘I’m looking for Canon Ryder.’

  ‘Then you’ve found him. May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?’

  ‘My name is de Silva.’

  Ryder closed his prayer book and walked back down the aisle to where de Silva stood. As he did so, the light from one of the chandeliers fell on his sleeve, highlighting a smattering of something rust coloured. Briskly, he rubbed it away.

  ‘I fear that the maintenance of this chapel leaves something to be desired. I’m afraid the ship’s cleaners don’t place the house of God very high on their list of duties. But forgive me, I’m wasting your time with my mundane complaints. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You may already be aware that one of the passengers, Charles Pashley, died of a heart attack early yesterday morning. As I’m an inspector in the Royal Ceylon Police and happened to be travelling on the ship, Captain McDowell and Mr William Petrie, the government agent for the Central Province in Ceylon, who’s also on board, have asked me to assist in sorting the sad business out.’

  ‘Ah, I see. As you say, a sad business. The gentleman’s cabin was very close to mine, although I was attending an early service here on the morning he was found, so only heard of his death later. I believe he was travelling alone, and there was no grieving member of the family who might have welcomed a visit. In any case, it’s not for me to interfere with the ship’s chaplain’s pastoral duties; unless, of course, he requests my assistance.’

  ‘Can you remember when you last saw Mr Pashley?’

  Ryder pondered a moment. ‘It was at dinner. He was seated at a table close to mine. I shared a table with two couples who’ve been attending chapel regularly – if you wish, I can give you their names.’

  ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary for the moment.’

  ‘I don’t recall seeing Pashley again after dinner ended. I retired to bed a little before eleven o
’clock and didn’t meet him in the corridor on the way to my cabin.’

  His chest heaved with a series of rasping coughs. ‘My apologies,’ he croaked as the fit subsided. ‘My lungs are weak.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I won’t detain you long, but as your cabin was close to Mr Pashley’s, we’d be interested in knowing anything you might be able to tell us about him.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing. You may find that surprising as we were close neighbours on the ship, but I doubt Charles Pashley had any time for a humble priest like myself. I understand from Mrs Meadows, who comes regularly to services, that in London, he moves in exalted circles. Our interests and experiences would have been worlds apart. We exchanged the usual civilities if we met in the corridor, but that was all.’

  ‘Did you notice him having many visitors to his cabin?’

  Ryder frowned. ‘I couldn’t say for certain whether he had any, but if he did, I was never disturbed by their comings and goings. Inspector, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what is the point of these questions? Has there been any suggestion of foul play?’

  ‘Nothing of that kind,’ said de Silva quickly. He feared his last question had been too blunt. ‘We’re merely trying to piece together a picture of how Mr Pashley spent his time on the ship. Very little seems to be known about his personal life. If he had become friendly with anyone who might know any details of it, it might prevent us from overlooking friends or relations who would be distressed by not being told of his death.’

  The mild expression on Ryder’s face indicated that he accepted the explanation. He appeared to be more easily satisfied than Mrs Pilkington.

  ‘May I ask how you passed the time between dinner and retiring to bed on the night Mr Pashley died?’

  ‘I spent about an hour here. I like to have a period of private prayer and reflection before I retire for the night. Then I went to my cabin and got ready for bed. I read for a short while before turning off the light and sleeping.’

  Clearing his throat, he rubbed a thumb over the spine of his prayer book and frowned. ‘Inspector, are you sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Nothing, I assure you, sir. As I say, it’s just for the record.’ De Silva dislike lying, but for now, he seemed to have very little choice.

  ‘Then if there’s nothing else I can help you with, I’ll return to my cabin.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry to have kept you. Thank you for your help.’

  **

  ‘I know who you mean,’ said Jane when de Silva told her about his meeting with Ryder and the canon’s scars. ‘We were both in a group of people talking to the ship’s chaplain after the Sunday service before we reached Bombay, but I didn’t catch his name then. He seemed very quiet and gentlemanly. I’m sure he’d be horrified if he thought he was a suspect.’

  ‘Plenty of killers have hidden their dark side under a cloak of inoffensiveness,’ said de Silva grimly. ‘Think of Dr Crippen.’

  ‘That’s true, but I very much doubt Canon Ryder is one of them. And how dreadful to have to live with those terrible scars. I wonder where the poor man got them. In the war, do you think?’

  ‘I assume so. He looks old enough.’

  She sighed and smoothed out the piece of embroidery she was working on.

  ‘I hope I’m not going to run out of magenta silk before I’ve finished these flowers. I wonder if there’ll be shops in Cairo where one can buy that sort of thing.’ She rested her chin on her hand. ‘Or perhaps there won’t be many shops, just markets with local crafts and delicious food. Rather like the bazaar in Nuala but much bigger.’

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘You’re not really listening, are you, dear?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s alright. I know it’s difficult to think about anything apart from your case.’

  She put her embroidery aside. ‘Why don’t we go to the lounge? It would be nice to have a cold drink before lunch. Maybe you should look for William Petrie afterwards. He might have heard something from London that will help. It’s rather soon, but I suppose it’s possible.’

  He stood up. ‘Yes, a cold ginger beer would be very welcome.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we?’

  The main lounge in Tourist Class buzzed with conversation and laughter. Sunlight streamed through the large picture windows. De Silva and Jane found a free table and ordered their drinks from a white-jacketed steward. They didn’t have to wait long; as the cool liquid slipped down his throat, de Silva felt a little more at peace with the world.

  ‘Good day to you!’

  He looked up and saw the smiling faces of James Ross and his wife, Barbara. ‘Ginger beer, what an excellent idea. May we join you?’ Ross asked jovially.

  ‘We’d be delighted,’ Jane said with a smile.

  ‘Poor Barbara was suffering from one of her headaches yesterday,’ Ross went on. ‘We didn’t do much.’

  ‘I told James I would be perfectly alright on my own in our cabin, but he insisted on staying with me.’

  Her husband grinned. ‘You know I don’t want to let you out of my sight since you got so lost the other day.’

  Barbara laughed awkwardly. ‘I do have the most terrible sense of direction. I ended up in a laundry cupboard.’

  ‘I hope you’re feeling better today, ma’am,’ said de Silva.

  ‘Oh, I’m perfectly fine, thank you. I think I just had too much sun. It was so lovely being out on deck and enjoying the scenery. The colours of the sea and the sky are so wonderful, don’t you think? I’m afraid we shall have to get used to cold weather when we arrive in England. It might even be snowing.’

  De Silva drank his ginger beer, smiling and nodding as Barbara Ross rattled on. She was a pleasant woman, but she did talk a great deal, and if he’d been asked afterwards what she was talking about, he couldn’t have given a sensible answer. He was far too preoccupied with thoughts of the investigations he had made so far and those that were still to come.

  Jane gave him a surreptitious dig in the ribs as they followed the Rosses into the dining room. ‘Shanti, you’re still miles away,’ she whispered. ‘Do try to forget about Charles Pashley for a little while.’

  De Silva sighed. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  The meal began with tomato soup. He raised the first spoonful to his lips with very little optimism, but the flavour was better than he had expected. The choice of main dish included vegetable curry which he knew from a previous evening was not bad. He chose that and, while the four of them waited to be served, made small talk with the Rosses about their plans on their return to England.

  The food arrived, borne by stewards with white napkins over their arms. When they had withdrawn, James Ross stabbed a fork into his plate of lamb hotpot. ‘How’s the photography coming on, de Silva?’

  ‘James must have used up dozens of films since we came on board at Hong Kong,’ said his wife.

  ‘Not quite dozens, dear, but the ship’s photographer is developing some of the ones I have taken. If they haven’t turned out well, I’ll probably do more. The bright sunlight shining on the white paint of the superstructure can cause problems with overexposure. I’d be delighted to take anything along for you, de Silva. The chap’s very obliging and not terribly busy. I think the novelty of having their photographs taken on board ship has worn off for many people by now.’

  ‘That would be kind. I have finished a roll of film.’

  ‘Just tell one of the stewards to drop it into my cabin.’

  ‘Thank you, I will.’

  There was a commotion at the far end of the restaurant, and heads turned. A man had stumbled into one the tables. He righted himself and before anyone could remonstrate, hurried on, leaving chaos behind him. A stout man sat at the table jumped up; red wine stained his shirt front. One of his lady companions looked down with dismay at the splashes of lamb gravy on the bodice of her dress.

  The author of the disaster was already halfway to the resta
urant’s double doors when an older man who was sat at a table near the de Silvas’ caught him by the wrist as he passed and spun him round. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ de Silva heard the older man bark. ‘What d’you think you’re playing at? Go back and apologise at once.’

  The younger man – de Silva recognised him now as Harry Delaney, the singer with the band that they had danced to on the previous evenings – scowled, then dragging his feet, returned to the table he had knocked into.

  ‘Extraordinary behaviour,’ said James Ross. ‘Isn’t that fellow the singer? He’ll be lucky if there’s no complaint to the captain. If he doesn’t watch his step, I expect he’ll find himself eating in the crew’s quarters in future.’

  Looking at Delaney’s flushed, handsome face and resentful expression as he passed their table and headed once more for the double doors, de Silva wondered what had caused the American to behave so badly. Ross was right; the captain was likely to be severely displeased if it came to his attention that passengers had been upset. What had happened to make Delaney careless as to whether he lost a privilege? If it hadn’t been early in the day, de Silva would have thought he was drunk.

  The stout gentleman and his lady companion stalked from the restaurant, apparently not much placated by Delaney’s apology. The hum of conversation, the chink of glasses, and the soft clatter of cutlery was restored. Barbara Ross took a sip of her Elephant ginger beer. ‘These theatrical people can be very eccentric,’ she remarked. ‘I had a schoolfriend who went on the stage. She dyed her hair platinum blonde and ran off to Brighton with a married man. It was quite a scandal.’

  James Ross spluttered into his glass. ‘I don’t think that woman is a suitable subject for conversation, Barbara.’

  His wife smiled sweetly. ‘If you say not, dear.’

  De Silva concealed his amusement. Barbara was obviously a lot less stuffy than her husband. Despite her being a mite too talkative for his taste, he decided that he liked her.