[Inspector de Silva 06] - Passage From Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  He said as much to Jane when, lunch over, they were walking back to their cabin for a nap.

  ‘I like them both,’ she said, then lowered her voice. ‘Although at the risk of being unkind, I suspect James Ross drinks more than he should.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Just an impression I have. I once met Barbara on deck, and we had a little time alone. You were busy with William Petrie. She hinted she and her husband argued a lot. I suspect that may be the cause of her frequent “headaches”. All the same, I agree that they’re good company.’

  As he unlocked the cabin door, de Silva felt a twinge of guilt for Jane. Apart from the Rosses, not many people on the ship had even passed the time of day with them. Back in Nuala, there had been difficult occasions at first, but now there were very few people who didn’t accept they were a couple.

  When one left home only infrequently, it was easy to forget that Nuala wasn’t the world. Correspondingly, it was hard to ignore that, on this ship, there had been numerous disapproving looks. He’d been distracted by the work Pashley’s murder entailed and able to put those looks out of his mind, but for Jane it must be harder to put up with. Not for the first time, he worried that he had been unfair asking her to marry him.

  ‘What is it? Have I said something wrong?’ she asked as he stood aside to let her walk in.

  ‘No, it’s what you didn’t say – that there are plenty of people on the ship with whom we wouldn’t be comfortable; nor would they welcome our company.’

  She sighed. ‘I’m afraid that’s true. But are they people you care about? I know I don’t.’

  ‘No, I’m only concerned it might upset you.’

  ‘Then don’t be.’

  He heard a crackle and realised that he’d stepped on a note that had been slipped under the door.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ she asked, stifling a yawn. ‘Oh dear, this sea air is really very enervating.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to do without that nap,’ said de Silva scanning the lines written in Petrie’s bold handwriting. ‘William Petrie wants to see me.’

  He reached for her hand. ‘Are you sure you have no regrets?’

  She kissed his cheek. ‘I’m surprised you need to ask. Now, go and see Mr Petrie and try not to let him keep you too long.’

  **

  He found Petrie in the Cabin Class bar; he stood up as de Silva approached.

  ‘I trust you’ve had lunch?’

  ‘I have, thank you, sir.’

  Petrie gestured to the glass on the table. ‘Will you have a whisky?’

  ‘A small one, thank you.’

  Raising his arm, Petrie clicked his fingers, pointed at his glass and then at de Silva. The steward whose attention he had caught hurried off in the direction of the bar.

  ‘Made any progress with Ryder?’

  ‘I’ve interviewed him, sir. He claims he spoke rarely with Pashley and knew very little about him apart from the fact that Pashley moved in different social circles and would probably have had no time for him.’

  ‘Did you get the feeling Ryder resented that?’

  ‘Not at all. He seemed a mild-mannered, self-effacing type.’

  ‘What was his account of how he spent the evening?’

  Briefly, de Silva explained then they fell silent as the steward brought the whisky.

  ‘We’ll leave Ryder aside for the moment,’ said Petrie when the man had gone. He stared down into his glass and swirled the inch of whisky left in it. De Silva swallowed a mouthful of his own. It was a fine single malt. Petrie was obviously more of a connoisseur than Archie Clutterbuck.

  A group came to sit at the table nearby, and Petrie drained his glass. ‘If you’re ready, I suggest we take a turn on deck.’

  With regret, de Silva drank up quickly and followed Petrie’s tall figure as he strode out of the bar.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said when they reached the deck and had found a quiet spot. ‘Some people have sharp ears, eh?’

  ‘Indeed, they do.’

  ‘We can’t be too careful.’

  He lit a cigarette and leant on the rail, staring out to sea. ‘Two down, four to go,’ he remarked. ‘I suggest the two of us tackle Chiltern and Mrs March together. I’d like you to interview the Meadows woman without her employer present, just to make sure she has nothing to add that might help us. We can decide about Mrs de Vere later.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from your contacts in London yet, sir?’

  ‘Not yet, but I hope to soon. I don’t think we need worry about that. We still have a long way to travel before anyone can leave the ship. It’s turned out to be a blessing we won’t be calling at Aden.’

  A commotion by one of the stairways leading onto the deck drew their attention. A lady of mature years, attended by a small army of stewards carrying her rugs, books and refreshments, had appeared. She was dressed in a flowing, chiffon garment in woodland shades. A green sunhat with an extravagantly wide brim sat atop an abundance of burnished copper hair that would not have been out of place in a Pre-Raphaelite painting. She proceeded to take an inordinate amount of time deciding where she wanted her steamer chair positioned and, on each occasion, no sooner had she decided than she changed her mind again.

  Petrie observed the party. ‘Ah, I believe that’s Mrs de Vere now, our lady novelist whom we haven’t interviewed yet. Lady Caroline has pointed her out to me. Poor fellows,’ he went on as the stewards lugged the lady’s impedimenta to yet another spot. ‘I’d be tempted to throw the lot overboard and her with it.’

  De Silva was taken aback. This was a new side to William Petrie. He was unexpectedly adopting some of his wife’s nonchalance in the company of a subordinate.

  A sudden shriek startled de Silva. Something had thrown the nomadic little party into confusion; Mrs de Vere appeared to have been taken ill. De Silva wondered out loud if they should call for the ship’s doctor.

  Petrie shook his head. ‘I’m sure the stewards will deal with whatever’s necessary. She looks to me to be unharmed. It’s one of her bearers who has injured himself in the process of moving her steamer chair.’

  The steward did indeed look to have injured his hand which was bleeding profusely, perhaps from a sharp splinter. As far as de Silva could tell, the man took his injury stoically, whereas the novelist was giving a performance worthy of Sarah Bernhardt. She was obviously fond of creating a drama, but some people did have a horror of blood. De Silva recalled one of his constables in Colombo who had struggled with the inconvenient affliction.

  Venetia de Vere quietened. Fortunately, she hadn’t noticed them, so Petrie and de Silva turned their attention back to the sea. Outlined against the azure sky, and about half a mile away, another cruise ship steamed past them in the opposite direction. Its elegant, white silhouette gleamed in the sun. In another direction, the lower lines and blacker smoke of two more ships suggested that they were freighters.

  ‘Quinquireme of Ninevah from distant Ophir,’ quoted Petrie.

  ‘Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,

  With a cargo of ivory,

  And apes and peacocks…’

  He paused. ‘Once, I had it by heart,’ he said glumly.

  ‘Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine,’ supplied de Silva.

  Petrie looked surprised. ‘You know John Masefield’s work?’ He gave de Silva an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. We learnt some of his poems at school, where I was not, I’m afraid, a very attentive pupil, but since then, Lady Caroline has taught me to enjoy poetry.’

  De Silva smiled. ‘As I expect you know, in Ceylon, our education follows the British model, but like you, I have my wife to thank for my appreciation of the books I read very reluctantly in those days.’

  ‘And what’s your opinion of the British system?’

  De Silva searched for the right words. ‘It has many benefits,’ he said at last.

  ‘Very diplomatic.’
Petrie’s face cracked into a mischievous grin that again took de Silva by surprise. ‘I imagine not all of your countrymen feel that.’ The grin faded. ‘The world is changing, my friend. Throughout history, no empire has lasted forever, and at home, events in Germany are causing concern. This man Hitler has his admirers, but in my view, their faith in him is misplaced.’

  He tossed the end of his cigarette into the waves. ‘Enough politics. Do you remember how the poem goes on?’

  De Silva racked his brains.

  ‘Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,

  Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores…’

  He stopped. ‘Memory fails me too, sir. I think there’s something about a cargo of Tyne coal and cheap tin trays.’

  ‘I expect the ladies would finish it with no difficulty.’ Petrie’s brow furrowed. ‘Stick to what we do best, eh, de Silva? We need to get on with interviewing Chiltern and Mrs March. Our own version of the ape and the peacock.’

  ‘Petrie!’

  They both looked over their shoulders to see a balding man with a military-style moustache striding in their direction. ‘An old acquaintance from my Colombo days in Government House,’ Petrie muttered quickly. ‘Shall we continue this conversation later?’

  ‘Of course.’

  De Silva hurried away before the balding man could reach them. It might have been awkward being introduced and possibly needing to deflect unwelcome questions. A pity. The conversation had been interesting. Unexpectedly, Petrie might be a man with whom one could risk having a frank exchange of views.

  Chapter 12

  ‘I didn’t know where you’d got to.’

  De Silva had been back in their cabin for an hour before Jane returned.

  ‘Lady Caroline invited me to take tea with her.’

  ‘And did you have an interesting conversation?’

  ‘Yes, we did. She suggested that the murderer might be someone whose cabin’s not on Pashley’s corridor. She posed a good question: how would the present suspects drug Pashley? Is there evidence that any of them spent time alone with him to have the opportunity?’

  ‘It’s a fair point, and she’s right. Unfortunately, it means we’d end up with a whole boatload of people to interview.’

  He remembered Clara Pilkington’s sleeping draught. That was the only obvious method of drugging someone that he’d heard of being to hand among Pashley’s neighbours, but he couldn’t imagine the two spending a convivial evening together.

  ‘I’d like to start with the obvious suspects first though,’ he went on. ‘If the steward’s lying, or negligent in his duties, I expect we’ll find him out eventually.’

  ‘How was your talk with William Petrie?’

  ‘Interrupted by some fellow from Government House he’s acquainted with. Not much has been decided.’

  Jane sat down in one of the easy chairs and picked up her embroidery. ‘Never mind. Unless they decide to swim, no one can leave the ship for the present.’

  ‘William Petrie said much the same thing.’

  ‘What did he say about Canon Ryder?’

  ‘Very little, but he didn’t say he wanted Ryder interviewed again either. Oh, and we saw Mrs de Vere, the novelist whose cabin is on Pashley’s corridor.’ He recounted the scene for Jane’s amusement. ‘After that, we talked about poetry.’

  Jane put down her embroidery and shaded her eyes against the sun coming through the porthole. ‘That must have surprised you.’

  ‘It did. He quoted from John Masefield’s Cargoes.’

  ‘I like that one.’

  ‘Me too, but I can’t imagine Archie Clutterbuck coming out with it.’

  ‘Neither can I. William Petrie seems to be of a different stamp to Archie. Lady Caroline isn’t at all like Florence either.’

  ‘Well,’ said de Silva with a grin, ‘I don’t suppose many people are.’

  Chapter 13

  In the morning, they found a table for two in a quiet corner of the restaurant to have breakfast. De Silva wasn’t in the mood for making polite conversation. He wanted to compose himself in readiness for the meeting with Diana March and her fiancé. While he waited for one of the stewards to come to take their order, he absent-mindedly rearranged the cutlery in front of him. Jane put her hand on his. ‘Do try to relax, dear. I’m sure it will go far better than you expect.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  She picked up the menu and studied it. ‘I’m sure I am. Oh good, grilled kippers. I think I’ll have some.’

  After breakfast, they returned to their cabin to find a note from William Petrie. He had arranged the meeting with Diana March and Arthur Chiltern for eleven o’clock.

  ‘I think I’ll stay here and read my book for a while,’ said Jane. ‘The forecast is for a very hot day. What are you going to do while you wait, dear?’

  ‘I’ll feel better for some exercise. A turn or two round the deck should do the trick.’

  Out on deck, there was no one about. He completed two brisk circuits then sat down on a deckchair in the shade. The forecast had been right; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the deck shimmered in the heat. They were too far out from land for seagulls now. The only sounds were the flapping of a canvas cover that had worked loose from a stack of life rafts by the rails, the soft hiss of the ship cutting through the waves, and the underlying throb of the engines. Closing his eyes, he saw dancing pinpricks of green, yellow and red. The smell of salt mingled with the fainter aroma of engine oil and soot.

  The sound of coughing disturbed his peace. He opened his eyes and realised that he wasn’t alone. The tall man standing at the rail had his back to him, apparently unaware that he was awake. Even from behind, he looked tense, his shoulders hunched and his jacket taut across his back. De Silva saw a plume of cigarette smoke rise, then the man dropped the stub and ground it under his heel before knocking it into the sea with the side of his shoe. He turned abruptly, and his glance crossed with de Silva’s. It was Harry Delaney. He flinched and gave an awkward nod before hurrying away.

  De Silva frowned. What troubled Delaney? Perhaps he should consider questioning him? But then what possible connection could there be between Delaney and Charles Pashley? The singer might be plagued by a variety of other troubles. He glanced at his watch and levered himself out of his deckchair. It was time to join Petrie.

  **

  Diana March’s stateroom wasn’t quite as grand as Mrs Pilkington’s, but it was still very luxurious. As he went to sit down in the chair she indicated, his feet sank into thick-pile, cream carpet. The furniture was elegant but looked comfortable. On the wall opposite the entrance door, a magnificent mural composed of many different polished woods drew his attention. He recognised some of Ceylon’s native ones – coromandel, satinwood, and ebony. The picture showed a ship, her sails unfurled as she beat against the wind under a sky full of scudding clouds.

  He would have liked more time to study the mural, but Diana March was speaking, and he must turn his attention to what was being said. He noticed that between her and her fiancé, she was by far the more composed of the two. Now he saw them both more closely than he had at the dinner with the Petries in Cabin Class, de Silva guessed that she was the elder by a few years, perhaps in her mid-thirties.

  Arthur Chiltern stood by one of the windows, his hand resting on the back of an armchair. De Silva noticed how his small, bristly moustache accentuated his weak chin. He seemed content to leave the talking to his beloved and had suggested holding the meeting in her stateroom rather than his own.

  Petrie made the introductions then asked after Arthur Chiltern’s parents. ‘I knew your father and mother quite well when I was in England,’ he said. ‘I hope they are both in good health.’

  ‘I’ve been away for five years, but as far as I’m aware, they are,’ said Chiltern, rather ungraciously to de Silva’s mind.

  Diana March cut in. ‘How kind of you to ask, Mr Petrie.’ Her smile transformed the air that de Silva h
ad thought haughty when he first saw her. ‘This is a dreadful business,’ she went on. Her voice had a husky timbre. ‘We were so looking forward to the cruise and to have a murder happen on our doorstep is most unpleasant.’

  So, Mrs March and Chiltern already knew that Pashley had been murdered, thought de Silva.

  William Petrie frowned. ‘May I ask who told you that, Mrs March?’

  ‘Mrs Pilkington. I hope she didn’t speak out of turn. We’ve mentioned it to no one else. I expect the last thing that you and Captain McDowell want is a panic on the ship.’

  ‘Indeed, we don’t. Thank you.’

  ‘Arthur and I would like to help. You must let us know if there’s anything at all we can do.’

  She smoothed down the skirt of her immaculately tailored, white dress. De Silva found it difficult to take his eyes off the long, slender legs clad in sheer silk stockings.

  ‘Do you think it’s likely the murderer will strike again?’ she asked.

  William Petrie cleared his throat. ‘Extremely unlikely. Inspector de Silva and I believe that the culprit is someone with a grudge against Charles Pashley. He would have no reason to attack unless someone threatened him with exposure. For that reason, I can’t impress upon you too strongly, that if you or your fiancé have even the faintest suspicion who may be the perpetrator of the crime, you do nothing to provoke them. We will take all necessary action.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring to hear.’ Diana March smiled again. She rested her hand lightly on the arm of her chair. A ring set with one of the largest diamonds de Silva had ever seen set off her long, slim fingers; scarlet polish accentuated her flawless nails.

  ‘Did you have occasion to speak to Mr Pashley often?’ asked Petrie.

  ‘Hardly a word passed between us.’

  ‘The man was a bounder,’ Chiltern butted in.

  ‘That’s a little harsh, my dear,’ said Diana March in an admonishing tone. ‘Let’s not forget that we haven’t really been courting new acquaintances on the voyage.’ She bestowed one of her smiles on Chiltern, and his expression softened. For a moment, he looked almost boyish.