by Conrad Allen
His wife pondered, but her resistance to the idea was gradually weakening. She recalled the pleasure she had had looking at the wedding photographs in their album and at those taken on their honeymoon. Wonderful memories came flooding back.
“I promised to give Wilmshurst an answer today,” said Fife.
“And all they want is one photograph?”
“Just one, Louise. It will all be over—literally—in a flash.”
“Very well,” she conceded. “Tell them that I agree.”
______
Myra Cathcart was delighted with the confidence her daughter was now showing. Instead of trailing behind her mother all the time, Lilian felt able to go off on her own and talk to various acquaintances they had made. It enabled Myra to have some freedom of her own at last. The irony was that it had come far too late. It was a fine morning but it was still cold and so she wore her fur-collared coat when she went out on deck. Hands tucked inside a fur muff, she made her way to the stern of the ship and gazed wistfully back in the direction of France. She did not hear the footsteps behind her.
“I thought it was you,” Genevieve Masefield said. “I recognized the hat.”
Myra was startled. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You surprised me, Genevieve.”
“I didn’t mean to creep up on you like that.”
“To be honest, I’m glad of the company. It will stop me from brooding.”
“Are you still missing Mr. Dugdale?”
“Very much,” Myra confessed with a sad smile. “He is such a dear man. So different from my husband. Don’t misunderstand me,” she said quickly. “Herbert was a considerate man and we were extremely happy together but he was very provincial. Walter, on the other hand, is a man of the world. Talking to him just opened my eyes.”
“It’s a shame that your daughter didn’t take kindly to him.”
“I don’t blame her for that. Lilian was only trying to protect me. When she heard that he was ill, she felt dreadful at the way she’d behaved toward him.”
“Yes, I know,” said Genevieve. “She told me.”
“Lilian found the whole experience rather sobering.”
“What about you, Myra?”
The older woman sighed. “I’m just left feeling terribly empty,” she said. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could have seen him before he went ashore. I wanted to say good-bye to him. Properly.”
“That wasn’t possible, I’m afraid.”
“So the doctor told me. It was such a wrench for me when we left Marseilles. The thought of Walter, lying in hospital in a foreign country, really upset me.”
“He’ll be taken care of,” said Genevieve. “In the circumstances, he could hardly remain on board. I think he’s in the best place.”
“You’re probably right.”
Genevieve felt a pang of conscience. She hated having to deceive her friend but she knew how much more distressing the truth would be for her. The fact that Myra had given her home address to a man she had only just met was significant. Dugdale was more than a casual acquaintance to her. Genevieve wondered how close their friendship really had been.
“At least you were able to spend some time together,” she observed.
“Oh, yes, Genevieve. And I treasure every moment.”
“Even though you never really had the chance to be alone with him?”
“But I did,” said Myra. “That was the most wonderful thing of all. Lilian had a bath one morning and I sneaked off to see Walter in the lounge. Yes,” she added guiltily, I know it’s silly for a middle-aged woman to behave like that, and I was wrong to go behind my daughter’s back but …” She gave a shrug. “Walter had asked me to meet him. It gave me such a thrill. I didn’t know I could still have such emotions.”
“There’s no time limit on feelings like those, Myra.”
“So I discovered. But there was a time limit on us. Walter knew that we wouldn’t be left alone for long. That’s why he apologized for rushing things.”
“Rushing things?”
“Yes,” said Myra. “He suggested nothing improper, mind you, but he told me how fond he’d become of me and asked a lot of personal questions that—if it had been anyone else but him—I’d have found rather impertinent. To start with, he wanted my address so that he could write to me. I gave it to him without hesitation. Then he said that he’d be returning to England next spring and asked if he could visit me in Leicester.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I agreed, naturally.”
“Did he suggest that you spend time alone with him again?”
“Yes, Genevieve. But he knew that it would be difficult with Lilian following me around. Walter said that we should wait until she’d started to relax and enjoy the voyage. He didn’t want to compete for my attention with Lilian.” A warm memory brought a blush to her cheeks. “And he didn’t want us to meet in the lounge again.”
“Why not?”
“It was far too public. He invited me to his cabin.”
Genevieve was surprised. “And you said you’d go?”
“Why not?” asked Myra. “I trusted him implicitly. Oh, I know I was breaking all the social rules and doing something that would have horrified Lilian, but I didn’t have the slightest qualm, Genevieve. I knew that it was the right thing to do.” Her voice darkened. “Just as I knew that it would be the wrong thing to do with Herr Lenz.”
“Did he ask you to go to his cabin as well?”
“No, but he tried to inveigle his way into ours. He offered to take photographs of me and I was vain enough to agree at first. I thought the sitting would be in one of the public rooms or even on deck.” She rolled her eyes. “Herr Lenz had other ideas.”
“What did he say when you refused?”
“He was angry,” said Myra. “Herr Lenz is very proud of his work and he felt that he was being snubbed. He blamed Walter. He accused me of letting Walter talk me out of it but that wasn’t the case at all. I simply felt uncomfortable about the whole idea.”
“So did Lilian. I remember how worried she was.”
“She was relieved when I called it off. The problem is,” she explained, “that Herr Lenz hasn’t given up. He keeps asking me to reconsider. He couldn’t badger me so much when Walter was around to look after me, but I don’t have his protection now. Herr Lenz is becoming a nuisance, Genevieve.”
“I sympathize with you. Unwanted suitors can be very bothersome,” she said, ruefully. “Just remember that there’s safety in numbers. Make sure that Herr Lenz never catches you alone.”
“I will.” She removed a hand from her muff to grasp Genevieve. “Thank you!” she said. “Thank you so much.”
“For what?”
“Listening to me. I’ve been able to get things off my chest.”
“I’m only too pleased to be of help, Myra.”
“Were you shocked by anything I told you? All my friends back in Leicester would be. They’d think I’d taken leave of my senses.”
“I don’t think that,” said Genevieve kindly. “And I wasn’t shocked in the least. I’m just glad to hear that you found a little happiness aboard.”
“It was more than happiness, Genevieve.”
Before she could elaborate, Myra heard her name being called and she turned to see a camera being pointed at her. Karl-Jurgen Lenz had set up his tripod while the two women were talking and he was now ready. Disappearing under a black cloth, he adjusted the focus slightly, then took the photograph. He emerged triumphantly from beneath the cloth and grinned at Myra.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cathcart,” he said. “That was a pleasure for me.”
* * *
Dillman knelt down to study the carpet more closely. He ran his fingertips over it.
“You’ve done a good job, Mr. Kilhendry,” he said. “No sign of blood.”
“Martin Grandage actually came in here to clean the place up. I didn’t want any of the stewards to see those stains on the carpet. They might have started
asking questions.”
Dillman stood up. “That was very noble of your deputy.”
“We’re not afraid of dirty work on this ship, Mr. Dillman.”
When Dillman asked for a master key to let himself into the cabin once occupied by Walter Dugdale, the purser decided to accompany him. He wanted to see the detective at work but his curiosity was tempered with disapproval. The detective stared at the floor, trying to remember the exact position in which the victim had been lying. He recalled the sight of the Norfolk jacket, soaked with blood that trickled onto the floor. It was an image he had locked in his mind so that it could be summoned up again.
Brian Kilhendry watched him with growing impatience. “Well?” he said, tapping a foot.
“Would you please stand behind the door?” asked Dillman.
“What?”
“Just for a moment, Mr. Kilhendry. Stand right here.”
He eased the purser into the position behind the door then opened it. He shut it again at once and took a couple of steps into the middle of the cabin. Dillman shook his head then faced Kilhendry.
“That’s not how it was done,” he decided.
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody was hiding behind that door when Mr. Dugdale came in. There isn’t really enough room. Besides,” he said, pointing to the mirror on the far wall, “anyone entering the cabin could see the reflection of someone behind the door. I saw you clearly, Mr. Kilhendry.”
“What if the place had been in darkness?”
“The spill of light from the passageway would still enable me to pick you out.”
“So?”
“The killer was not in here when Mr. Dugdale let himself in.”
“He could have been hiding in the bathroom,” said Kilhendry.
“Hardly. That would have meant the victim was facing him when he came out of the bathroom. Mr. Dugdale was an obliging man but I don’t think that even he would close his eyes while someone got into the right position to kill him. And we know that the attack didn’t start in the bathroom itself,” he said. “No blood, no sign of a struggle.” He stood on the spot where the victim had fallen. “He was struck from behind and went down here. That leaves us with only one conclusion.”
“And what’s that, Mr. Dillman?”
“He let the attacker into his cabin of his own free will.”
“Unless the man knocked on the door and forced his way in.”
“That’s highly unlikely,” said Dillman. “Mr. Dugdale would have tried to fight him off. At the very least, he’d have put up his arms to defend himself. But there were no bruises on them. Dr. Quaid let me see the body when he’d cleaned it up. The only wounds were on the back of his skull.”
“What does that tell you?”
“The murderer was someone he knew. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have let him into the cabin or been ready to turn his back on him. That narrows the field a lot.”
“He’d have let his steward in.”
“We can forget him, Mr. Kilhendry. You told me how shaken he was when he reported what he found in here. No, it was someone else. Someone whom Mr. Dugdale had befriended on the voyage.”
“From what you say, Mr. Dugdale was a very gregarious man.”
“That was the impression I got, certainly,” said Dillman, stroking his chin, “and Genevieve Masefield had the same opinion. She got to know him quite well.”
Kilhendry was cynical. “Does that mean she’s a suspect? Mr. Dugdale would have let her into his cabin with alacrity. Any red-blooded man would do that.”
“It’s a good point.”
“I was trying to be droll.”
“Yes,” said Dillman, “but you raise an interesting possibility. One thing I do know about Walter Dugdale is that he’d be very willing to invite a woman in here. The viciousness of the attack suggests a man, but I’d not rule out a strong woman.”
“That’s good reasoning,” admitted Kilhendry. “I’m sorry that I tried to joke about it. But why didn’t you work all this out much earlier?”
“I did, for the most part. When I saw the body lying there, the first thing I did was to wonder how the killer had got in and out. I just wanted to double-check and to have a second look at the scene of the crime. Thanks for your help, Mr. Kilhendry.”
“It was largely nosiness.”
“Nosiness, or suspicion?”
“Well,” said the purser, “there’s an element of that, it’s true.”
“How can I dispel it?”
“By catching the murderer. I know that you have to move carefully but you don’t seem to have made any advances at all.”
“I think we have, Mr. Kilhendry.”
“Oh?”
“We know when and how the killer got in,” explained Dillman, “and we know that it was someone whom Mr. Dugdale became acquainted with on the ship. That takes us on to motive. What drives a man to commit a murder?”
“Envy? Hatred?”
“That gives us two suspects, immediately.”
“Suspects?”
“I’m not saying that they’re guilty, mark you,” Dillman stressed, “but they were both known to the victim and they both had a score to settle. Even though he didn’t like either of them, I fancy that he’d have invited them in if they said that they wanted a chat in private. Either man could fit the bill.”
“Who are they, Mr. Dillman?”
“You mentioned envy. There’s a German passenger called Herr Lenz who was positively consumed with envy. According to Genevieve, who sat opposite him over dinner, Herr Lenz developed a serious interest in an English lady who clearly favored Walter Dugdale. You know what usually happens in love triangles.”
“Somebody ends up getting hurt.”
“Then there’s hatred,” said Dillman. “Mr. Dugdale was a very likable man yet I believe I’ve met someone on board who hates him enough to want him killed. In fact, he’d glory in his death.”
“What’s the man’s name?”
“Vivet. Claude Vivet.”
They got off to a slow start. Polly Goss was nervous. She kept making mistakes and was feeling inadequate. Claude Vivet was surprisingly patient, taking her back over certain passages time and again until they got them right. He had brought a selection of French music with him and, while Polly recognized one or two of the more famous pieces, most of it was quite new and rather daunting. Rebecca Goss was the only member of their audience, hauled along at her daughter’s insistence. Like Polly, she felt that she had misjudged the Frenchman earlier on. He was not merely a good musician, he had gifts as a teacher as well. Their instruments began to blend. Polly’s confidence grew.
When the practice came to an end, she was full of apologies.
“I’m terribly sorry, Monsieur Vivet,” she said. “I was hopeless today.”
“No, no. You get better as we go along.”
“I’ve worked so hard on my embouchure but you’d never have guessed it.”
“I hear you play yesterday,” he reminded her, “and I know what you can do. I think maybe you miss someone from the audience, no? The tall American gentleman. When you play for George Dillman, the flute sound like a bird singing.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Vivet,” said Rebecca, taking over when she saw her daughter’s obvious discomfort at the mention of Dillman. “It’s very kind of you to take an interest in her music.”
“It’s kind of her to put up with me on the piano.”
“You helped her through that sticky patch at the start.”
He grinned. “Maybe it was Polly who help me, eh?”
Polly gave a half-smile but she was still too embarrassed by the fact that the Frenchman had noticed her fondness for George Dillman to say anything. She turned away to put her flute back into its case. Vivet gathered up the sheet music.
“Why is your husband not here?” he said. “He does not like music?”
“He loves it,” replied Rebecca.
“Yet he was not here yesterday to watch his da
ughter.”
“Morton was working on his paper. He’s giving a lecture in Cairo next week.”
“A lecture?”
“Something to do with ancient Egypt,” she said. “He’s devoted the whole of his life to studying it. He assures me that I’ll see why when we actually get to Egypt.”
“Is a beautiful country.” He kissed Polly’s hand. “Thank you very much. I think we work well together. Tomorrow, I hope, I will be a little better.”
Polly laughed. “You’re very kind, Monsieur Vivet.”
“I like to help any young musician, and is nice to practice with someone else. When we meet tomorrow, you try to bring your father. He will be proud of you.”
“I asked him to come today,” said Polly, “but he was too busy showing off those silly little stones that he’s brought with him.”
Vivet spread his arms and lifted his shoulders. “Silly little stones?”
“Relics from some Egyptian dynasty,” explained Rebecca. “He’s returning them to a museum in Cairo. No, I’m afraid that Polly will have to play on without her father. He’s a true academic. His work will always come first.”
Morton Goss wrapped the last fragment in cotton wool before putting it away in the box. They were in his cabin and he had just finished explaining what the relics were. His visitor was dressed impeccably in a frock coat. Gray spats covered his shoes.
“This has been an absolute treat,” said Sir Alistair Longton. “Thank you so much for letting me see them. I feel honored.”
“I’m the one who’s honored, Sir Alistair. You’ve read one of my books.”
“So have thousands of other people, I daresay, but I was the one lucky enough to bump into you. It’s a knack I have, you know. Chance encounters with people I’ve always wanted to meet.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” said Sir Alistair. “I once met the King at a regatta. He was Prince of Wales at the time, of course. Knew a lot about sailing, too. Then there was Thomas Hardy, the novelist—met him in London when we tried to get into the same taxi from opposite sides. I even crossed paths with Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, our last prime minister,” he continued with a chortle, “though I’m not prepared to say in what circumstances.”
