by Conrad Allen
“It’s the least I can do,” said the purser. “I’ve been in touch with our agent in Marseilles. Preparations are in hand to unload the body there. All I told him was that we had a death on board. He can take over from there. It may well be that Mr. Dugdale’s daughter wants the body sent back to America for burial. My letter can go with it.”
“How did the captain react?”
“Badly,” said the purser. “It’s the worst thing that could happen at the very start of a voyage. He wants the murder solved as quickly as possible.”
“So do the rest of us,” said Dillman. “Where’s the body now?”
“Locked securely away on a bed of ice. I’ll be glad when we can smuggle it ashore in France.” A note of rancor intruded. “Well,” he continued, sitting back in his chair. “I suppose that this is what you were hoping for, Mr. Dillman: a chance to prove yourself as a detective.”
“I certainly didn’t hope for a murder, Mr. Kilhendry, and I resent the suggestion.”
“Oh, come now. You and Miss Masefield wanted a case that you could get your teeth into. Then you could show us all the tricks of the trade you learned on the Cunard Line. You solved more than one murder for them.”
“Not by using any tricks,” said Dillman. “One of the reasons we had a degree of success was that we always enjoyed the full confidence of the purser.”
Kilhendry glared. “That certainly isn’t the case on the Marmora.”
“I can’t believe that even you would want us to fail.”
“Of course not, Mr. Dillman. Nothing would please me more than if you and your partner were to find the killer and hand him over to us. Then I might actually believe some of the things that are said about you. As it is,” said Kilhendry, “I dislike the way that you suddenly have to assume so much responsibility on my ship.”
“Not from choice,” said Dillman.
“Martin Grandage may have great faith in you, but I don’t.”
“All we ask is that you don’t hinder the investigation, Mr. Kilhendry.”
“I’d never do that,” snapped the other. “I have a vested interest in getting this mess cleaned up. It’s bad for the reputation of P and O.”
“I thought you were more concerned with the reputation of Brian Kilhendry.”
“The two go hand in hand.”
“It could have been worse,” Dillman pointed out. “We have the opportunity to get the body ashore in Marseilles and explain to the friends he made aboard that Mr. Dugdale is ‘too ill’ to continue the voyage. That’s a major hurdle out of the way. Imagine how much more difficult it might have been if his death had occurred at some later stage when we were a long way from the next port of call.”
“Whenever it happened,” said Kilhendry, “it would have been a catastrophe.”
“There are mitigating circumstances here. Supposing we had just left Marseilles when the crime took place. It’s a long way to Port Said,” Dillman argued. “Where else do we bunker on our way to Sydney?”
“Aden, Columbo, and Freemantle.”
“There you are, then. We’ve got some lengthy stretches at sea ahead of us.”
“Yes,” the purser said sourly, “and I look to you and Miss Masefield to ensure that they’re entirely free of trouble. We don’t want to unload a murder victim every time we stop to take on coal. You’d better start to think of your reputation, Mr. Dillman.”
When she heard the tap on the door of her cabin, Genevieve Masefield trembled with apprehension. Afraid that Nigel Wilmshurst might be calling on her, she decided to ignore the sound and finish dressing for dinner. But her visitor was too insistent to be put off by the silence from within the cabin. Knuckles were rapped harder on the timber and Genevieve eventually responded.
“Who is it?” she asked, standing by the door.
“It’s me,” said Lilian Cathcart. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”
Relieved that it was not her former fiancé, Genevieve opened the door and let Lilian in. She was pleased to see Lilian alone for once because it gave her the chance to gather some more details about a late-night discussion with Walter Dugdale that had taken place in the lounge. Wearing a pale green evening dress and an anxious expression, Lilian had come specifically to talk about the man.
“I feel so guilty about Mr. Dugdale,” she said, eyes full of compassion. “There was I, wishing that he would go away, and he’s struck down by a terrible illness. It’s almost as if I wished it on him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Genevieve assured her. “You’re not to blame.”
“I was so unkind toward him.”
“He meant you no harm.”
“I can see that now,” said Lilian. “I was very selfish earlier on.”
“It’s not a crime for a man to show fondness toward your mother. She has such vivacity; that will always turn heads. I was there when Mr. Dugdale first met her,” said Genevieve, “and I could see that she’d made an impression.”
“I know, Miss Masefield, and it was wrong of me to criticize her for that. Mother is so upset by what’s happened to him. She’s desperate to visit Mr. Dugdale.”
“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.”
“How long will this attack last?”
“You’d have to ask the doctor. All I know is that he’s doing very poorly. Malaria is a cruel disease. One minute a patient is running a high fever; the next minute, he’s shivering uncontrollably with cold. Nobody wants to be seen in that condition,” said Genevieve. “Mr. Dugdale is best left alone.”
“I do feel sorry for him,” said Lilian, biting her lip. “He looked so healthy earlier on. This will ruin his holiday completely.”
“Well, I hope that you won’t let it ruin yours. Or your mother’s.”
“It was a blow for both of us, especially for Mother. I hadn’t realized how much she cared for Mr. Dugdale. That’s why I’m so full of remorse; Mother is very distraught.”
“Try to offer her as much support as you can,” suggested Genevieve.
“Oh, I will,” said the other. “It’s the one good thing to come out of this business. Mother and I were able to talk properly for the first time.”
“ ‘Properly?’ ”
“Without arguing. I’ve been so silly and childish—I can see that now. Mother has been saintly with me, really, and so have you, Miss Masefield.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” said Lilian. “Both of you put up with me hanging on to you because I didn’t feel able to stand on my own feet. I owe you an apology as well as Mother.”
“No, you don’t.”
“It was very naughty of me to unload my worries on you.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Genevieve said warmly. “I’ve enjoyed our time together. I’m just sad that you haven’t been able to get into the spirit of things. Everyone else came aboard determined to have a good time, whereas you seemed resigned to suffer. There must be something about the Marmora that you like.”
“Oh, there is,” Lilian agreed with a show of enthusiasm. “Meeting you has been wonderful, of course, and there have been other people whose company has been very pleasant. Then there’s the royal party,” she added. “Every time they’ve come out on deck, I’ve been there to watch them.”
“By the time you reach Port Said, you’ll be bored by the sight of them.”
“That could never happen.”
Genevieve was touched by Lilian’s honesty in admitting that she had been in the wrong and was delighted that her attitude toward the voyage was now more positive. The sudden disappearance of Walter Dugdale had brought mother and daughter closer and yet, paradoxically, it had also pushed them apart slightly. Genevieve could see that Lilian would no longer be so dependent on her mother or, indeed, on Genevieve herself. In a short space of time, Lilian Cathcart had visibly grown up.
“When did you last speak to Mr. Dugdale?” asked Genevieve.
“It must have been that night we finished up in the lounge with him,” replied Lilian. “Mother
was so cross about that. She wanted to stay and talk to him but I made her come away with me. Do you see what I mean about being selfish? Mother hated having to leave him alone with that German lady.”
“Frau Zumpe?”
Lilian was surprised. “You know her?”
“Yes,” Genevieve said casually, “I bumped into her one day. She’s not a lady you can easily forget. How did she get on with Mr. Dugdale?”
“Very well, as it happens,” said Lilian. “He somehow managed to charm her. I think that’s what annoyed Mother. That and Herr Lenz, of course.”
“What was he up to?”
“He kept speaking in German to Frau Zumpe. It was very rude of him.”
“You can hardly blame the man for wanting to use his own language.”
“But it excluded the rest of us. Except Mr. Pountney, that is. He knew enough German to realize what they were talking about and he teased them a little. That stopped them.” A smile touched her lips. “Mr. Pountney is a very nice man.”
“I wondered when you’d notice that,” said Genevieve.
“So cultured and assured.”
“You should get to know him better.”
“Oh, he’s not interested in me,” Lilian said wistfully. “Though he did ask me a lot of questions about our family business. He’d actually heard of Cathcart’s Shoes. It turns out he’s had business dealings in Leicester himself.”
“There you are. You have something in common with him already.”
“Not really. He didn’t pay much attention to me. He was too busy telling the others about his investments in Egypt. Mr. Pountney said it is important to get a stake in the country,” she recalled. “He told us he wished that he’d been around when the Suez Canal was being built. He’d have snapped up as many shares as he could. Apparently, that’s what Mr. Disraeli did when he was prime minister.”
“Yes, it was a brilliant investment. I was taught about it at school.”
“I don’t know anything about business,” said Lilian, “but I was intrigued by what he told us. So was Frau Zumpe. She kept pressing him for more details. Mr. Pountney is such a marvelous talker. I could listen to him for hours.”
“So why did you drag your mother away?”
“He’d left by then. So had Herr Lenz.”
“So there were just the four of you.”
“Three, really,” confessed Lilian. “I might just as well have not been there because I didn’t say a word. I just sat there and sulked while Mr. Dugdale talked to mother and Frau Zumpe. He made them laugh but I was seething with anger.” She pulled a face. “That’s why I feel so rotten about it now. I do hope I get the chance to make amends for it when he gets better.”
“We’ll have to wait and see,” said Genevieve, knowing that it was a vain hope. “The main thing is that you recognize your mistakes. That’s something to build on. And I don’t think you should assume that Mr. Pountney has no interest in you. I’ve seen him give you admiring glances a number of times.”
“I can’t compete with the person who’s really caught his attention.”
“And who’s that?”
“You, of course,” said Lilian. “He talked about you a lot to Mother and wants to know all about you. Surely, you must have noticed. You’ve made a conquest.”
Dillman had gone no more than a dozen yards from his cabin when he was ambushed. Polly Goss had been lying in wait for him. She was wearing a white satin evening dress, silver earrings, an Egyptian necklace, and far more cosmetics than before. Dillman caught a whiff of her perfume as she pounced on him.
“When are you going to listen to me playing the flute?” she asked.
“Whenever it is convenient,” he replied.
“I have the feeling that you don’t really want to, Mr. Dillman.”
“That’s not true at all. Suggest a time.”
“Tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock?”
“I’ll be in the first-class music room on the dot,” he promised, “and I’m sure that I’ll hear some first-class music. Have you decided what you’re going to play?”
“Not yet.”
Polly Goss showed her teeth in what she thought was an alluring smile but it only served to remind Dillman how young and immature she still was. He could see that she felt a trifle neglected by him so he offered her his arm to take her in to dinner. She took it at once and gave a little laugh of triumph.
“It doesn’t have to be in the music room,” she pointed out. “If you’d rather hear me in private, I could come to your cabin.”
“The music room will be better. It has proper acoustics. Besides,” he went on, “if you play in public, you’ll have a larger audience. Other people will be attracted by the sound of your flute. You’ll be like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.”
“You’re the only person I want to play for, Mr. Dillman.”
“I’ll certainly lead the applause, I know that.”
“Thank you!”
She squeezed his arm then hung on to it tight until they reached the first-class dining room. There was a slight change in the seating arrangements. Dillman sat beside Polly and opposite her parents, but the face immediately next to Morton Goss had altered. The newcomer was Sir Alistair Longton, a distinguished-looking man in his sixties with a mop of white hair and bushy side whiskers. He wore a monocle through which he peered at the evening menu.
“Splendid fare!” he observed. “I can’t fault the food on this ship.”
“Then you’d better not meet Monsieur Vivet,” said Goss. “He believes the only place that produces good chefs is France, and he’s the self-appointed master of them.”
“Yes,” added Rebecca. “He made some very harsh remarks about the food on board. We don’t think that’s the case at all. What about you, Mr. Dillman?”
“I’m on your side, Mrs. Goss,” replied Dillman. “We’ve had delicious meals.”
“Delicious meals and delightful company,” said Longton, with a chuckle.
There was a flurry of introductions and Polly was thrilled that she was dining with a member of the British peerage. It was, however, her father whom the old man had come to meet. Morton Goss had an admirer.
“I do believe that I may have read a book of yours, Professor Goss,” Longton said.
“Really?” said Goss. “Which one?”
“Treasures of Ancient Egypt.”
“Oh, I wrote that years ago, Sir Alistair.”
“It was years ago that I read it, old chap, but I do recall how it fired my imagination. Gave me the urge to visit Egypt as well. I couldn’t believe my luck when Roland Pountney told me that you were actually on the same ship.” He gave another chuckle. “Our paths were destined to cross.”
“I’m glad that they have.”
“I was determined to sit next to you at the earliest opportunity.” He beamed at Rebecca and Polly. “And to meet your charming wife and daughter, of course. I’d better warn you that I’ve come to pick your brains, Professor Goss.”
“I’ll talk about ancient Egypt until the cows come home, Sir Alistair.”
“Not to mention the camels, eh?”
Sir Alistair Longton chortled happily. He was a lively individual and kept the conversation bubbling throughout the meal. Though he wanted to know about the archaeological sites Goss had visited, he did not ignore the ladies. He was attentive to Rebecca and, by the time dessert was served, Polly had acquired another member of the audience for her flute recital. Dillman liked the buoyant old gentleman. Sir Alistair had none of the airs and graces that the detective had encountered in some members of the minor aristocracy. He was friendly, open, and ready to learn.
“You obviously like Egypt, Sir Alistair,” noted Dillman.
“This is my fourth visit, Mr. Dillman,” replied the other. “First two were with my late wife—God bless her!—but the last was on my own. I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. Won’t be spending Christmas alone, though. My son’s joining me in Cairo.”
“Where is h
e at the moment?”
“Somewhere in India, trying to work out how to get to Egypt.”
“Is he in the army?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman. My old regiment.” He turned to Goss. “Do you know India?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Goss. “Studying one ancient civilization is enough for me.”
“India has its charms as well,” said Longton. “When you have another lifetime to spare, I’d urge you to explore the subcontinent. Fascinating country!”
“So I believe, Sir Alistair.”
“I miss it. But then, at my age, I’ve started to miss a lot of things!”
He chortled merrily again. Dillman bided his time until coffee was served. When there was a gap in the conversation, he did some gentle digging on his own account.
“You mentioned Mr. Pountney earlier on,” he said.
“That’s right,” returned Longton. “Do you know the fellow?”
“I introduced him to Mr. Dillman in the smoke room,” Goss explained. “He struck me as a thoroughly nice man.”
“He is, he is,” agreed Longton, “and surprisingly free from prejudice.”
“In what way?” asked Dillman.
“Well, you know what we English are. Decent chaps, all of us, but inclined to snobbery. Even now, there’s still a residual contempt for money made in trade. I don’t share that contempt. Neither does Roland Pountney,” he went on. “There aren’t many Englishmen who’d give up their Christmas at home so that they could keep an eye on a commercial venture in Egypt. That’s what he’s doing.”
“He told us that you were a prospective investor, Sir Alistair.”
“I am, Mr. Dillman. It’s something I’m seriously considering.”
“What is the project?”
“A new hotel,” said Longton, “right in the heart of Cairo. The land has been acquired and the architect commissioned. Pountney showed me an early sketch of the hotel. Took my breath away. It’s going to be a veritable palace.”
“Isn’t the finance being raised from Egyptian sources?” said Dillman.
“Yes, but Pountney has a close link with them because of his other business interests there. He’s a man with his finger on the pulse, I can tell you. Joy to meet him. And since I’ve also met the author of Treasures of Ancient Egypt,” he added, “this trip is turning out to be the voyage of a lifetime for me.”
