**
Venetia de Vere wore pastel pink with cascades of ruffles. The diamond bracelet circling her wrist was so extravagant that de Silva wondered whether the stones were imitation. If not, it was clearly time that he tried to persuade Jane to bend her talents to writing romance.
In the muted light of the morning sun, her stateroom’s drawing room was also pastel-coloured, with lilac upholstery, a dove-grey carpet, and assorted bowls and vases of lusciously scented pink flowers. De Silva banished the thought that it would only take a sprinkling of powdered sugar to complete his feeling that he sat in a massive box of rose-flavoured Turkish Delight. From the agitated expression on Mrs de Vere’s heavily made-up face, he and Petrie had a delicate task ahead of them.
They barely had time to introduce themselves before she interrupted. ‘I expected Captain McDowell.’
‘He sends his apologies. Unfortunately, his duties make his absence unavoidable. I hope Inspector de Silva and I will be able to help.’
‘I hope so too, Mr Petrie. This voyage has turned out to be most unsatisfactory. First, I was obliged to accept inside accommodation. They told me nothing else was left in Cabin Class. Now I’ve been insulted by one of the crew. I insist something be done.’
Mrs de Vere glowered at them both. De Silva had the sensation that he was being inspected by an iceberg. She might be a romantic novelist, but soft-hearted wasn’t an appropriate adjective for her.
Petrie frowned. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully, there’s been a misunderstanding, but can you tell us more about the circumstances?’
She shuddered. ‘I can hardly bear to think of it. Suffice to say, that man, Delaney, had the temerity to lay a hand on me.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I’m surprised that the Blue Star Line employs a man who forgets his place. He should be dismissed and put ashore at the next available opportunity. I fail to understand why I’ve received no assurances it will be done.
‘Furthermore,’ she snapped, ‘a valuable ring of mine has gone missing. A keepsake from my dear, departed husband. I shouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t turn up in the crew’s quarters, but I suppose that’s of little concern to Captain McDowell. He seems to think this business with Charles Pashley is more important than anything else.’ She sniffed. ‘Although it’s hardly surprising someone wanted to kill Pashley.’
De Silva saw William Petrie give a start. As Captain McDowell said, they’d lost the battle.
‘Oh, there’s no need to look so dismayed, Mr Petrie,’ she went on. ‘You didn’t think that murder could be kept secret for long, did you?’
‘Regrettably, it seems that it can’t. Did you know Charles Pashley well?’
Venetia de Vere’s lips pursed in a moue of distaste. ‘Better than I wished to. He was a thoroughly unpleasant individual. Oh, I willingly admit he had no time for me either. He made no bones about disliking my books. He had the nerve to describe them as trashy and trite. Why he thought that his nasty little columns, and his occasional attempts at writing plays – none of which survived for more than a few weeks in the West End – entitled him to style himself a literary critic, I failed to understand. He admitted that he dashed off his columns in a few minutes before he took his afternoon rest, then if any juicy piece of gossip emerged over dinner, he made whatever amendments were needed and gave the dispatch to the steward to send off early the next morning. Hardly a great practitioner of the literary craft.’
‘When did you last speak to him?’
She paused a moment then shrugged. ‘We wished each other a good evening and spoke briefly if we met on the way to dinner. One has to be civil.’
‘We believe he was killed in the early hours of Thursday morning. May I ask what you were doing on Wednesday evening?’
‘I dined at the captain’s table then had coffee in the bar with friends. I came to bed at about eleven o’clock. The steward will vouch for that.’
‘Thank you. As you appear to have known Mr Pashley better than the other passengers in this part of the ship, may I ask if you can think of anyone who might have wished him dead?’
‘Apart from myself?’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘My little joke. I deal in romance, not murder. I’m sure many people will be happy to know he’s no longer polluting the air, but I can’t help you with the name of the person who achieved that laudable result. If I could, I’d send them a bouquet.’
William Petrie cleared his throat. ‘Thank you for your frankness, Mrs de Vere.’
‘A pleasure, Mr Petrie. And you will make sure this man Delaney is dealt with, won’t you? I insist it be treated as a matter of urgency.’
‘Be assured, appropriate action will be taken.’
‘I trust Harry Delaney won’t be permitted to remain at large a moment longer to pester any other passengers.’
‘That will be for the captain to decide.’
Venetia de Vere tossed her head. ‘Well, I hope he comes to the right conclusion. And my ring needs to be recovered.’
‘Is it possible that your maid misplaced it, ma’am?’ ventured de Silva.
She glowered at him. ‘Certainly not, and she’s been with me for years. I trust her implicitly.’
‘Very well,’ said Petrie. ‘Everything possible will be done.’
**
‘What an impossible woman,’ muttered Petrie as they walked away down the corridor. ‘I don’t know whether to believe her or not. Hard to say what motivated the complaint – the truth or vanity. And we’re no further forward with the Pashley business,’ he added gloomily.
De Silva had held back from mentioning what the pianist, Betty Falconer, had told Jane about Delaney, but he decided it was time to reveal it now.
As he explained how Jane had learnt from Betty Falconer that Harry Delaney claimed to be harassed by the importunate attentions of a wealthy female passenger in Cabin Class, William Petrie listened thoughtfully.
‘Interesting,’ he said when de Silva had finished. ‘So, your supposition that the passenger might be Mrs de Vere seems to be correct. The question is, do we believe her story or Delaney’s? It’s credible that he would flatter a wealthy woman, either because his employers encourage it, or in the hope of some benefit to himself, but was he the one to step out of line, or did Mrs de Vere become an embarrassment? I suggest we keep this one under our hats for the moment, de Silva. We might question this Falconer woman officially, but it’s likely to send more rumours flying round the ship. I’d rather avoid that for the present. Anyway, we need to speak to Harry Delaney himself now. If he sticks to a different story from Venetia de Vere’s, McDowell will have a difficult decision to make. Unfortunately for Delaney, I doubt it will go his way. McDowell won’t want any trouble, and Delaney is the more expendable of the two.’
They parted in the Cabin Class lobby, and de Silva started back to his cabin to find Jane. As he walked, Venetia de Vere’s comment on how Pashley worked reminded him that when Pashley’s body had been found, his next dispatch wasn’t in his cabin. He must question the steward about that. After he’d found Pashley’s body, why remove the dispatch? Had the murderer, whoever he or she was, had a reason for wanting to get rid of it? Or was it just that Pashley had departed from his customary pattern and not written anything that day?
He was still thinking about the possibilities when he reached their cabin. Jane looked up from her magazine and smiled a greeting.
‘What did Captain McDowell want?’
He sat down in the armchair opposite her and rubbed a hand over his forehead. She listened while he told her about Venetia de Vere’s accusations.
‘If Betty Falconer’s right,’ she said when he had finished, ‘far from pursuing her and taking liberties, Harry Delaney’s probably desperate to extricate himself.’
‘Hell has no fury like a woman scorned?’
‘Yes. And if that’s the case, I doubt she’ll let the matter rest until he’s sacked. What an awkward situation.’
‘Fortunately, it’s the captain who will eventua
lly have to decide how to resolve it. Petrie and I only need to question Delaney.’
‘I suppose that’s some consolation.’
She put down her magazine. It lay open on the table at a page showing a photograph of Jean Harlow, encased in ivory satin elegance. She was holding out one side of her dress’s sunray-pleated skirt so that the photographer’s artful lighting dissolved the fabric into a luminous shimmer. The photograph was a sad reminder to de Silva that his camera still lay unused.
‘Shanti?’ Jane frowned. ‘I said did you mention Betty Falconer’s information to Petrie? Surely, it’s relevant now?’
He rallied, ‘It certainly is, and I did, but he asked me to keep quiet about it for the moment.’
‘Probably wise until you’ve had a chance to talk to Delaney. Did you speak to Mrs de Vere about Charles Pashley?’
‘Yes. She made it very clear she disliked him – there seems to have been a lot of professional animosity between them – but that alone isn’t proof that she killed him. Like all the others, she was able to account for her movements that evening up until she retired for the night. After that, we’re back to relying on Chung’s honesty.’
He yawned. ‘I feel as if it’s been a long day already. What have you been doing while I’ve been away?’
‘Oh, I went to the Sunday service.’
Ruefully, he realised that in the absence of church bells, he had forgotten it was a Sunday. He sighed. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t keep you company. If this trip hadn’t turned into such a bus driver’s holiday, I would have.’
‘Busman’s holiday, dear. Afterwards I went to a very interesting talk about dolphins and whales given by a professor of marine biology who happens to be on board, then I came back here.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in!’ called de Silva.
‘Message from the captain, sir,’ said the steward who entered.
De Silva groaned inwardly. What now? He slit open the envelope. ‘It’s about Harry Delaney,’ he said with a frown. ‘He was due to perform at a morning concert and didn’t turn up. He’s not in his cabin, and it seems that no one’s seen him since yesterday.’
Chapter 15
‘Any news of Delaney yet?’ asked Petrie. He had summoned de Silva to the smoking room in Cabin Class. It was quiet there in the middle of the afternoon.
‘Not yet, sir. But Captain McDowell has lent me the services of a few of the crew to help in the search. It can’t be long.’
‘I hope not. I can’t imagine why he’d suffer the same fate as Pashley, but it would be reassuring to find him.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
De Silva’s stomach rumbled. He’d eaten nothing since breakfast except a few of the sandwiches Jane had ordered from room service. He thought wistfully of the lavish lunch buffet usually set out in the Tourist Class dining room. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to miss dinner too.
William Petrie got up from the wing-backed armchair in which he was sitting. ‘I can’t see what more we can do. The crew probably know this ship like the backs of their hands. Best to let them get on with it. Something did occur to me though. If Venetia de Vere isn’t trying to pull the wool over our eyes about this ring of hers, we ought to question that steward again. He has a pass key to all the cabins and could easily slip in when the occupants are out. What’s his name?’
‘Chung, sir.’
‘Right; we’ll deal with him straight away. I suppose the same point applies to the other stewards who’ve been on duty for the corridor, but they’ll have to wait. After we’ve seen Chung, we should go to dinner. I expect Mrs de Silva is becoming as tired as is Lady Caroline of this wretched business impinging on our respective holidays.’
**
In Captain McDowell’s not entirely successful attempt to keep Charles Pashley’s murder quiet, Chung had been removed from duty in Cabin Class and put to work in the kitchens. As Petrie and de Silva approached them, the heat intensified. De Silva felt sweat trickle down his back under his shirt and bead his forehead. His hands were clammy. He felt sorry for Chung if the man had done nothing worse than have an occasional doze when he was on duty. It was hard to be forced to exchange an easy job in Cabin Class for such unpleasant conditions.
William Petrie must be fitter than he was. He seemed far less troubled by the oppressive heat. De Silva hoped the excursion was going to be worthwhile. For the moment, he was sceptical. Why would Chung want the ring? They were a long way from land. Had he taken it with a view to selling it in a bazaar, he was going to have a long wait, and during that time, he might be found out. More likely that, if he had stolen it, it would have been on someone’s orders. But whose?
Steam and strong aromas of baking, roasting, and frying wafted towards them. The air was full of bellowed orders: a jangle of Chinese, Malay, Tamil, Sinhalese and English. The young officer who had been their guide ushered them into a small, stuffy room furnished with a table and two hard chairs.
‘If you’d be so kind as to take a seat and wait here, gentlemen, I’ll fetch the man you want.’
Chung wore a sweat-stained vest and a pair of loose white cotton trousers rolled up above his knees. His bare arms and calves glistened. He crooked an arm and dragged the inside of the elbow across his perspiring face.
‘You wanted to speak to me, sirs?’ he asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘What do you know about a ring that was stolen from Mrs de Vere’s cabin?’ William Petrie asked sternly.
Chung’s eyes widened. ‘Nothing, sir. I swear it.’
‘Are you sure you never used your pass key to enter the cabin?’
‘Of course not, sir, and I would never steal.’ A desperate note quavered in Chung’s voice.
‘If you’re lying, you know you’ll lose your job.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The words came out in a whisper. ‘But it’s the truth, sir.’
‘At any time, did you see anyone go to the cabins who had no business to be there?’
Chung looked miserable, and de Silva felt a stab of pity. On occasion, he had experienced the rough side of Archie Clutterbuck’s tongue. For a half-educated man of Chung’s lowly status, Petrie’s questioning must feel a thousand times worse.
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you ever noticed anything suspicious? For example, passengers leaving their cabins after they’ve apparently retired for the night? It will go very hard with you if there’s something you don’t tell us.’
‘I understand, sir.’ Chung hesitated.
The air was thick with silence, finally broken by Petrie. ‘I think there is something. Out with it, man.’
‘Sometimes, after she has returned from dinner, Mrs de Vere goes out again late at night.’
‘Did she do that on the night Mr Pashley was killed?’ asked de Silva.
Chung thought for a moment. ‘Yes, sir, but she came back very quickly, and she looked angry.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ asked Petrie.
Staring at his feet, Chung mumbled something inaudible. Petrie scowled and leant back in his chair. ‘No doubt she made it worth your while to keep her comings and goings to yourself. Very well, you may get back to your duties. Don’t forget my warning.’
**
‘It’s a relief to spend a normal evening,’ said Jane. ‘I’m glad William Petrie decided we all should.’
They sat in the Tourist Class bar, waiting for the second sitting for dinner to be announced. De Silva swirled the whisky in his glass and ice cubes chinked against crystal. He wished he could relax, but it wasn’t easy. There was still no sign of Harry Delaney, and now there was Chung’s altered story to consider.
‘I don’t see anyone we know,’ Jane remarked, surveying the room. ‘I thought the Rosses might be here, but then I haven’t come across them all day. I do hope neither of them are unwell.’
‘If she’s lost again, that can be the next job for the crew.’
<
br /> Jane smiled. ‘I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’
‘I feel my grasp on it is tenuous to say the least,’ he said with a sigh.
The ship’s announcements system crackled into life to tell them dinner was served. Fortunately, there were several Indian dishes on the menu, and an assortment of tasty vegetable samosas and fiery curries went a long way to improving de Silva’s spirits. After they’d drunk their coffee, served in dainty, gilt-rimmed cups decorated with the insignia of the Blue Star line, they decided to take a walk before turning in. On the way, they went to their cabin for de Silva to fetch his camera. With so much going on, he must remember to make the effort to use it, and he’d been wanting to try some night shots.
It was quiet on deck but not silent, even though the night time sounds were different from those at home at Sunnybank. The murmur of water as the ship cut through the waves, and the low throb of the engines replaced the familiar hum of insects and rustle of nocturnal creatures. Instead of the dark shapes of trees and bushes to guide his way, he gazed out over an endless expanse of liquorice water, where moonlight gleamed on the frothy white crests of the waves. He tried a few shots, hoping the Kodak was up to capturing the beauty of the contrast of light and shade, but eventually, not wanting to waste too much film if it wasn’t, he tucked it back in its case, content simply to look.
The Arabian Sea: and to the south, the Indian Ocean. His own island, the teardrop of India, was there too. Then water, broken only by a few specks of land, until you reached the Southern Ocean and the frozen wastes of Antarctica. Feeling suddenly very small, he put an arm around Jane’s shoulders. ‘Are you feeling cold yet?’
She snuggled up to him. ‘Let’s stay a bit longer. It’s so beautiful out here.’
[Inspector de Silva 06] - Passage From Nuala Page 10
