by Conrad Allen
“Not at all,” said the officer, pleasantly. “We simply need proof.”
“Then I will give it to you—at a price.”
“You see? I knew that there’d be money involved.”
“One rupee, that is all.”
“I’d say you’re getting a bargain,” said Dillman to the officer. “One rupee is not much to risk. I’ll act as stakeholder, if you like.”
The man was dubious. “Let’s hear more about this proof first.”
“As you wish,” said the mystic. “I will demonstrate my powers.” He held up his newspaper. “I will take one sheet of this and place it on the deck. You and I will both stand on it, side by side.”
“And then you’ll make us float into the air. Is that it?”
“No, sir. I will give you a chance to earn your rupee. You will have the rest of the newspaper, rolled up in your hand. All that you have to do is to hit me with it and the money is yours.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m bound to win.”
“Then you must accept my wager.”
“You really want me to clip you with the newspaper?”
“I want you to try, sir,” said the old man, “but I will use the power of my mind to stop you. I will give you the proof that you demand.”
Dillman sensed that the Sikh would somehow win the bet, though he had no idea how. There was a weird, mystical air about the old man and Dillman loved his clear, gentle, measured voice with its Welsh lilt.
“It sounds like an easy way to earn a rupee,” he opined. “It’s a pity the stake is not higher.”
“Yes,” agreed the officer. “Is there any chance of increasing it?”
“Of course,” said the Sikh. “Name your price.”
“Ten rupees.”
“Give them to our American friend here.”
Both men handed the coins to Dillman. The old man then tore one sheet out of the newspaper and gave the rest of it to his challenger. Rolling it up, and egged on by his companion, the officer got ready to strike but it was not as simple as he had imagined. The Sikh led them all across to a steel bulkhead with a riveted door set into it. Bending down, he slid half of the sheet of newspaper under the door.
“Now, sir,” he said to the officer. “You stand on the piece on the other side of the door and try to hit me.”
The watching Indians clapped their hands in approval and, to his credit, the officer took his defeat with good grace. He burst out laughing.
“I deserved that,” he said. “I was beaten by the power of the mind.”
“Would you like another demonstration?” asked the mystic.
“No, no. I’d only lose again. Take the money. You earned it.”
Still laughing, he walked away with his friend. Dillman was highly amused. He handed over the twenty rupees to the old man.
“I was wondering how you were going to do it,” he admitted.
“Thank you for your help,” said the mystic. “My name is Guljar Singh, by the way. I live in Bombay.”
The detective shook his hand. “George Dillman,” he said.
“What you saw was only a trick, Mr. Dillman. I would not have you think that is all I have to offer. I really am a fortune-teller who can see into the future.”
“So am I, Mr. Singh. The moment that officer took your bait, I could foretell that he would lose his money.”
Singh chuckled. “You should have placed your own bet.”
“I prefer to be an independent witness.”
“Then you can witness something else, my friend. I tell you this in confidence,” he went on, taking a step closer and lowering his voice. “From the moment I stepped onto this ship, I was afraid.”
“Of what?” asked Dillman.
There was no immediate answer. Staring in front of him, Guljar Singh seemed go off into a kind of trance. His eyes grew wide and milky, his mouth opened, and he began to mumble softly. It was a full minute before he was able to focus on Dillman again.
“Something terrible will happen on the Salsette,” he predicted. “I do not know what it is or when it will come, but it is hanging over us. Beware, Mr. Dillman. We have trouble ahead.”
* * *
“No, Mother,” said Tabitha Simcoe. “You must not even think of it.”
“It’s my decision and I stick by it,” affirmed Constance.
“Why not have dinner served in here?”
“I agree with your daughter, Mrs. Simcoe,” said Genevieve. “After your fall earlier, you need rest. I think it would be a mistake to put yourself under any strain.”
“What strain is there in sitting at a table in congenial company? If I stay here, Miss Masefield, I’ll be bored to death.” Constance Simcoe used her walking stick to pull herself upright. “I’m fine now.”
“Dr. McNeil said that you should take it easy,” urged Tabitha.
“Ha! What do doctors know? If I’d listened to them, I’d have been bedridden for the last ten years. I’m fine now. Besides, I’m starting to feel hungry.”
Genevieve had called at their cabin to find the older woman in a combative mood. Constance Simcoe was making light of the incident. She conceded that she had occasional bouts of vertigo and sometimes passed out, but she was not going to let that interfere with the pleasures of the voyage. Genevieve was impressed by her powers of recovery. Propped up on her walking stick, Constance was still rather flushed but she had regained all of her old spirit.
“Do you remember what happened?” asked Genevieve.
“More or less,” replied Constance. “I was sitting in the chair and wanted to get something from the wardrobe. When I hauled myself up, I had a sudden dizzy spell and fell down. The next thing I knew, this young steward was bending over me and jabbering in Italian.”
“Just as well that he found you when he did.”
“I’m relieved that you didn’t hurt yourself,” Tabitha said anxiously. “You might have hit your head on the table or even broken a bone.”
“Stop worrying, Tabitha,” scolded her mother. “I’m much tougher than I look. You should know that by now.”
“I blame myself for this. I shouldn’t have left you alone for so long.”
“Fiddlesticks! You wanted to see the ship set sail.”
“I thought you were taking a nap,” said Genevieve.
“I was. I dozed off in the chair. When I woke up, I needed a clean handkerchief so I got up—then fell flat on my face.” She gave a throaty laugh. “After I’ve taken those pills the doctor gave me, I’ll be prancing around the deck like a two-year-old.”
Tabitha turned to Genevieve. “Whatever am I to do with her?”
“Perhaps your mother should join us in the dining saloon,” said Genevieve, revising her opinion. “If she feels well enough, that is.”
“I’m as fit as a fiddle,” announced Constance, hobbling a few steps with the aid of her stick to prove it. “I didn’t come on this trip to stay cooped up in a cabin. I want to meet people.”
“If you insist, Mother,” sighed Tabitha.
“I do—on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We don’t sit next to that abominable Mrs. Kinnersley. A frightful woman.” She turned to Genevieve. “Did Tabby mention her to you?”
“Yes,” said Genevieve. “I heard about Major and Mrs. Kinnersley.”
“The sort of people who give the English a bad name.”
“I’ll make sure I steer clear of them.”
“Do that, Miss Masefield. The major was bad enough, boasting about his regiment and the number of servants he had to fetch and carry, but his wife was even worse. When I told her that we lived in Cheltenham, do you know what she said?”
“No, Mrs. Simcoe.”
“Cheltenham was dull and old-fashioned. She said that it lacked any real style. To live in Cheltenham, she claimed, was to be buried up to the neck in all that was second-rate.”
“I can see that she was not trying to endear herself to you.”
&nb
sp; “Endear herself?” snapped Constance. “That old bat? The only way that Mrs. Kinnersley could endear herself to me is by jumping overboard with a ton weight in her arms.”
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Dillman,” said Dudley Nevin, waving cheerily to him. “Have you met Major and Mrs. Kinnersley yet?”
“I’ve not had that pleasure,” said Dillman, politely.
Formal introductions were made and handshakes exchanged. Major Romford Kinnersley was a tall, thin, straight-backed man in his fifties with a stern face and a protruding Adam’s apple. His wife, by contrast, was a short, fleshy woman whose glinting green eyes failed to offset the plainness of her features. From the way that they had reacted to the sound of his accent, Dillman could see that they had no fondness for the American nation.
“Where do you hail from, Mr. Dillman?” asked the major.
“Boston, Massachusetts,” said Dillman.
“Oh, yes. The notorious Tea Party.”
“The city does have other claims to fame.”
“To fame or to infamy?”
“Treat this fellow with care,” warned Nevin in jest. “Mr. Dillman is a demagogue. A born rabble-rouser.”
“Really?” said the major. “In first class?”
“Whom will they let in next?” added his wife, haughtily.
“Mr. Nevin is having a joke at my expense,” said Dillman. “I’m quite harmless, I assure you. I haven’t led a rebellion for years now.”
The four of them were standing outside the dining saloon. On the first evening afloat, dress was optional but both Nevin and Major Kinnersley had opted for white tie and tails. Matilda Kinnersley was wearing a black evening gown with a large golden brooch pinned to one shoulder. An ivory fan hung from her wrist. Even though he was immaculate, she looked askance at the lounge suit that Dillman had chosen, making him feel as if he had committed a major social solecism.
“Shall we find a seat?” suggested Nevin.
“Yes,” muttered the major. “Why not, old chap?”
They were not the ideal dinner companions but Dillman could not escape them now. Within a minute, he found himself sitting next to Dudley Nevin and opposite the Kinnersleys. By comparison with its counterparts on the Lusitania and the Mauretania—the premier Cunard vessels on which Dillman had sailed—the first-class dining saloon was small and rather subdued, but its design was attractive and its decoration exquisite. It also had an intimacy that the larger ships lacked. The detective was not permitted to take in his surroundings for long. Matilda Kinnersley began her interrogation immediately.
“What are you doing in this part of the world, Mrs. Dillman?”
“Broadening my mind,” he replied.
“Do you have any family?”
“I come from a long line of marine architects, Mrs. Kinnersley. We design and construct large yachts. I’m an apostle of sailing ships.”
“How quaint!”
“There’s nothing to beat the experience of crossing the Atlantic under sail,” said Dillman. “I did it for the first time when I was only ten.”
“Things have moved on, fortunately,” noted the major, clearing his throat. “Steamships have transformed our life for the better. Steam trains as well, mark you.” He allowed himself a proud smile. “British inventions, of course.”
“Nobody denies that, Major.”
“I wish that someone would invent a way to keep the railway carriages cool in hot weather,” said Nevin, testily. “I was roasted alive on the trip from Delhi.”
“One gets used to the heat in time,” said Kinnersley.
“It’s a matter of self-control,” added his wife. “Isn’t it, my dear?”
“Yes, Matilda. Self-control and adaptability—two sterling English virtues. We can’t have these people thinking we’re upset by their climate. Dash it all,” he continued, smacking the table for emphasis, “if they can cope with it, then so can we.”
“Where are you stationed?” said Dillman.
“Simla.”
“Isn’t it cooler there, Major?”
“Temperatures can still soar.”
“Wearing those thick uniforms must make the problem far worse.”
“Can’t dispense with those,” the other man said gruffly. “We have to remind the local population who we are.”
“I thought that a lot of your troops were Indian sepoys.”
“Too many of them, Mr. Dillman. That’s how the mutiny started. Because we recruited them, we trusted the fellows. And what did they do in return? They turned on us.”
“My father was killed at Cawnpore,” announced Mrs. Kinnersley.
“Along with so many other British heroes, I fear.”
“How does that make you feel about India?” asked Dillman.
“I have no feelings, sir. I merely do my duty.”
“So do I,” said Nevin, “but it doesn’t stop me from cursing this country every day. I’ve grown to detest everything about it. But I know that our American friend takes a different view.”
“I found Bombay such an exciting city,” said Dillman.
“Exciting to leave behind.”
“No, Mr. Nevin. Exciting to visit again, as I’ll surely do one day.”
Mrs. Kinnersley was crisp. “In one of your sailing ships?”
“Ideally.”
“What a bizarre notion!”
“I felt an affinity for the country, Mrs. Kinnersley,” said Dillman. “Even though my stay was only brief, I was at home in India.”
“Watch out, everyone!” cautioned Nevin with a grin. “Give him the chance and he’ll turn native on us.”
Mrs. Kinnersley shot Dillman a well-bred look of scorn while her husband reached for the menu. The major was deep in contemplation of the fare on offer before he spoke.
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” he ordered.
Genevieve was full of admiration for the way that it was done. Because P & O knew in advance that they had a disabled passenger, they made sure that Constance Simcoe’s cabin was on the same deck as the dining saloon. It meant that she could be wheeled there in her Bath chair by the willing Paulo Morelli, and was able, with her daughter, to take her seat before any of the other passengers arrived. The Bath chair was removed. By the time Genevieve joined them at their table, the two women were happily ensconced opposite Wilbur Rollins. After being introduced to the American, Genevieve sat beside him.
Rollins was wearing a smart navy blue suit and the ladies had chosen evening gowns. In her emerald green silk dress, and with some carefully selected jewelry, Genevieve was easily the most attractive of the women. Constance Simcoe wore a ruby-colored gown with puffed sleeves, and with taffeta flowers sewn across the neckline. Tabitha’s wardrobe had yielded a pale blue dress that showed off her figure to advantage, and, like her mother, she had a pearl necklace. Genevieve noticed how she had gone back into her shell again. On deck, Tabitha had been much more relaxed. With her mother—on duty, so to speak—she was stiff and watchful.
It was not long before they discovered the purpose of Wilbur Rollins’s visit to India. Genevieve was intrigued to hear that he was a writer but Constance Simcoe raised her eyebrows in astonishment.
“Women at Sea?” she said.
“Yes, Mrs. Simcoe,” he replied. “It’s a fascinating subject.”
“I didn’t know there were such things as female sailors.”
“Oh, yes. There were many of them in olden days. The person who lured me here—if I may put it that way—was Hannah Snell.”
“Who was she?” wondered Tabitha.
“A formidable woman in eighteenth-century London,” he explained. “Dressed as a man, she spent four and half years as a marine. Amongst other things, she sailed to India and fought in the Siege of Pondicherry. I went there earlier this month as part of my research.”
“Did nobody suspect that she was a woman?” asked Genevieve.
“Apparently not, Miss Masefield. Hannah became quite famous in the 1750s. When she told he
r story to the newspapers, they gave her a lot of publicity, so she began to appear on stage at the New Wells, a theater close to the Tower of London.”
“How extraordinary!”
“Is that all that she was?” said Constance. “A kind of freak?”
“Far from it,” replied Rollins, warming to his subject. “She was a very brave woman. Think of the hardships she must have endured aboard. There was no Suez Canal in those days. They would have had to sail around the Cape of Good Hope and that was a fearsome ordeal.”
“Why on earth did she do it?”
“Out of a spirit of adventure, Mrs. Simcoe. It was the same with Mary Anne Talbot, another eighteenth-century lady.”
“There’s nothing ladylike about being a sailor.”
“That’s why she had to disguise herself as a man,” said Rollins. “She started very young as a drummer boy in the army under Captain Bowen. When the regiment was shipped to St. Domingo, Mary Anne Talbot deserted and joined a French privateer.”
“Think of the risks she must have run,” said Tabitha.
“She must have had nerves of steel. Her ship was captured by Admiral Howe’s fleet and she became a cabin boy on the Brunswick, a British vessel, that soon saw action against the French. Mary Anne was wounded by musket balls.”
“Was that the end of her naval career?” asked Genevieve.
“Oh, no. She joined the Vesuvius, a bomb ketch that patrolled the French coast. Along with the rest of the crew, the poor woman was taken prisoner by the French and held for eighteen months in Dunkirk. On her release, Mary Anne signed on as a steward on a merchant ship.”
“You’re making all this up,” accused Constance.
“Mother!” reprimanded Tabitha.
“Well, it all sounds so fanciful.”
“Mr. Rollins has obviously researched his subject carefully.”
“I have,” he confirmed, hurt by the suggestion that he was inventing the stories. “I was a college professor for twenty years before I became a full-time writer. I follow strict academic principles.”
“I’m sure that you do,” said Tabitha, trying to mollify him.
“What happened to Mary Anne Talbot in the end?” said Genevieve.
“She came back to England on the Ariel, the merchant ship, and signed off. Then the strangest thing happened,” he went on with a chuckle. “Mary Anne was drinking in a London tavern near the river when a press gang suddenly burst in. The only way that she could escape being forced to join the navy was to reveal that she was a woman. And that brought her career afloat to an end—at the age of nineteen!”
