Murder on the Marmora (13 page)

Creeping along the passage, the man paused outside a cabin and tapped on the door. When there was no response, he used a master key to open the door and went swiftly inside and crossed to the dresser. Pulling out each drawer in turn, he tipped the contents onto the floor without ceremony then searched quickly through the mound of clothing. The thief soon found what he was looking for. Slipping the jewelry into his pocket, he turned his attention to the rest of the cabin. He sensed that he would have a good haul.

ELEVEN

V
era Braddock was a tall, thin, angular woman in her sixties with a hooked nose and a mole on her right cheek that looked like a beauty spot. She wore a black evening dress with a series of elaborate taffeta flowers sewn around the neckline. In spite of her stately appearance, she was gentle and retiring by nature, with a soft voice that rarely went much above a whisper. She and her sister Elizabeth had returned to their cabin that evening to find that, to their horror, they had been robbed. When they were questioned by Genevieve Masefield, it was Vera who did most of the talking.

“We’re traveling to Egypt for health reasons,” she explained. “The English winter is far too harsh for Elizabeth. She’s very delicate.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Braddock.”

“That was what frightened me about this crime. It was such a shock for Elizabeth, she had one of her attacks. We had to send for the doctor. He’s given my sister some medicine and promised to call again in the morning.”

“How do you feel now?” asked Genevieve, turning to the other woman.

Elizabeth smiled bravely. “Much better, thank you.”

“My sister never complains,” said Vera. “She’s stoical.”

Genevieve liked the two maiden ladies at once. She found them sweet, pleasant, and quintessentially English. The facial similarity was striking but they were otherwise very different to look at. Elizabeth Braddock was frail and almost bent double by a dramatic curvature of the spine. As she sat in a chair in their cabin, her breathing was labored. Vera, however, seemed to be in the best of health. The sisters were quite unlike the
Marmora
’s other victims of theft. Where Mabel Prendergast had cried and Frau Zumpe had ranted, the Braddock sisters were ready to accept the consequences of their folly.

“We never should have kept the jewelry in here,” admitted Vera. “We’ve been on P and O cruises before and there’s never been the slightest problem of this kind. We got into the habit of keeping our valuables around us.”

“I’ll need a full list of what was taken,” said Genevieve.

“Fortunately, our favorite pieces were not in the cabin. We were wearing them.”

“Yes, Vera,” said her sister, touching her ruby necklace. “They didn’t get this—thank God—or my rings, of course.”

She held up a skeletal hand that was covered in expensive rings. Vera, too, had an impressive battery of rings and a gold bracelet. By the sight of their jewelry, and from the fact that they could afford to spend so long in Egypt, it would be easy for a thief to deduce that they had wealth. Elizabeth’s movement was so impaired, it would take her a long time to get back to her cabin from the first-class dining room. The walking stick that was propped up against the chair was like a fifth limb to her. When the meal was over, a nimble thief would be able to reach and search their cabin then make his escape before the two sisters even got down to the main deck.

“Most of our money was put in the safe,” said Vera, “but we did keep rather a lot in reserve. That’s all gone and so are some small woodcarvings that we like to take with us on our travels. They are very beautiful and quite expensive.”

“Then the thief would hope to get a good price for them,” said Genevieve. “He’s clearly a professional and will know where he can sell everything that he’s taken from the other two cabins.”

Elizabeth was disturbed. “Two cabins? There’s been another theft?”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Braddock. In fact, this is the third. In one case, only money was taken, but the first crime involved the theft of some jewelry that had great sentimental value to its owner.”

“Dear me!” said Vera. “It sounds like an epidemic.”

“We’ll catch him,” promised Genevieve. “Or
her
, of course. It may be a woman.”

“A female thief? Surely not, Miss Masefield!”

“We’ve had to arrest more than one in the past, I fear.”

“That’s dreadful! What is the world coming to?”

“I work on instinct,” said Genevieve, “and it tells me that the same person stole from all three victims. In each case, you see, the cabins in question were occupied by female passengers. It may well be that the thief is someone who has deliberately befriended you in order to win your confidence, and a woman might find it easier to do that than a man.”

“But we’ve met so many people since we came aboard.”

“I’ll need a list of those who were at the same table as you tonight.”

Vera was troubled. “You think that one of them is the culprit, Miss Masefield?” she said. “What sort of person would share a meal with you then slip away from the table to steal from your cabin?”

“One who had an idea that he’d find something worth taking.”

“But how would he get such an idea?”

“From something you said, perhaps,” Genevieve suggested.
“I’m sure you didn’t volunteer the information that you kept valuables in your cabin, but you might inadvertently have let something slip.”

“In what way?” asked Vera.

“Well, that gold brooch of yours is very eye-catching, Miss Braddock, and your sister’s ruby necklace must have sparkled beautifully under the lights in the dining room.” Genevieve glanced from one sister to the other. “Did anyone pass remarks about either of them?”

There was a long pause. Vera Braddock exchanged a worried look with her sister.

“Someone did admire Elizabeth’s necklace,” she recalled. “And he was very complimentary about my brooch as well. It’s in the shape of a salamander, as you see. I told him that my sister had something very similar—from the same jeweler, in fact—except that it was in the shape of a dragon.”

“Go on,” said Genevieve.

“I may well have said that Elizabeth had the brooch back in our cabin,” confessed Vera. “How could I be so stupid?”

“There’s no guarantee this man
was
the thief.”

“I’m certain that he wasn’t, Miss Masefield. He was very personable.”

“And he couldn’t do enough to help me,” added Elizabeth. “Passing me things at the table and so on. I’m rather restricted in how far I can reach.”

“He helped Elizabeth up from her seat after the meal,” said Vera.

“And then what did he do?” asked Genevieve.

“He told us that he had to meet someone in the lounge and he slipped away.”

“That proves nothing. He might or might not be involved here. There would have been other people at the table who overheard your remark about the dragon brooch. I’ll need to know the names of everyone in the vicinity.”

“That’s not difficult,” said Vera. “I have a good memory for names.”

Genevieve took out her notebook and pencil. “Then let’s start with this man who expressed an interest in your jewelry,” she said. “What was his name?”

“Mr. Pountney. Mr. Roland Pountney.”

Polly Goss was more than a gifted amateur musician. She had real flair. Though Dillman would rather have been pursuing his investigation into the murder, he kept his promise to listen to her and, seated beside Rebecca Goss in the music room, he was very impressed by what he heard. As he had predicted, the mellifluous tone of her flute brought a number of curious passengers in to swell her audience and Polly was soon performing to almost twenty people. As far as she was concerned, however, the recital was aimed at only one of them and she looked at Dillman whenever she could. To that end, she began with some tunes she knew by heart, most of them composed by Stephen Foster. When she took up the more testing challenge of Scarlatti, she needed to follow her score but, even then, she kept flicking a glance in his direction to make sure that Dillman was listening.

The recital concluded with Dvořák’s “Humoresque,” adapted for the flute. It allowed Polly to show the full range of her talent, and her breath control was remarkable throughout. Warm applause followed, and Dillman clapped as loud as anyone, but the most enthusiastic listener was the man who had been standing at the back of the room. Claude Vivet surged forward to take Polly’s hand and to kiss it with gratitude.

“Bravo!” he declared. “That was
magnifique
!”

“Thank you, Monsieur Vivet,” said Polly, slightly overwhelmed.

“You are, I think, the true musician.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Dillman, moving across to her.
“That was excellent, Miss Goss. A lovely program that was beautifully played.”

Rebecca added her maternal congratulations and Polly basked in the praise. Dillman was glad of the opportunity to meet Vivet and, when Rebecca introduced them, he exchanged a handshake with the dapper Frenchman.

“You obviously enjoyed the recital,” said Dillman.

“Very much,” Vivet replied. “I have only one complaint to make.”

“Complaint?” echoed Polly, bridling.

“Yes, you played nothing by a French composer. Debussy and Ravel, they both write for the flute, and there are others, too. Forgive me,” he went on, “but I am a pianist, you see. When I am not in the kitchen, I am at the piano.” His face lit up as an idea came into his head. “We must play together some time, Mademoiselle Goss,” he said. “Flute and piano together make very nice sound. It is, for me, an honor to accompany you.”

“Thank you,” said Polly, flattered by his attention.

He turned to Rebecca. “You have no objection to this?”

“None at all, Monsieur Vivet,” she replied. “But it’s up to my daughter.”

“It would save you practicing on your own,” said Dillman, “and you couldn’t have a more willing accompanist than Monsieur Vivet.”

“Do not take me on the trust,” warned Vivet, crossing to the piano. “You want to hear that I am worthy of you. Listen to this.”

Lowering himself on to the stool, he lifted the lid and, without needing the music in front of him, played part of a mazurka by Chopin. It was a faultless performance. He broke off and turned to them with a dazzling smile.

“Chopin, he was Polish, maybe,” he said, “but he
live
in France.”

There was no doubting his skill at the keyboard, and the notion of having an accompanist appealed to Polly. She had disliked the
man at their first meeting but his approval of her as a musician made her see him in a new light. After thinking it over, she consented to practice with him. He stood up and gave a little bow of gratitude.

“Today the
Marmora
,” he said. “Tomorrow, the concert halls of Europe.”

Polly laughed. “Oh, I don’t pretend I’m that good, Monsieur Vivet.”

“You will be.”

Dillman was pleased with the arrangement. It would not only help Polly to improve as a musician, it would keep her preoccupied and less inclined to waylay him when his mind was on other things. While he did not wish to hurt her feelings, he knew that he would have to avoid her more assiduously in the future. Dillman turned to Vivet.

“I hear that you’re a famous chef,” he said.

“Mais oui,”
returned the other. “Claude Vivet, he is well known in France.”

“How far are you going on the ship?”

“Only as far as Egypt. I have the invitation to cook in a restaurant there.”

“French cuisine?”

“What other kind is there,
mon ami
?” Vivet asked with a laugh.

“Back home,” said Dillman, “we prefer plain cooking.”

“Then you miss one of the great pleasures in life. Eat a meal prepared by Claude Vivet and you would know what I mean. Soon,” he boasted, thrusting out his chest, “I will cook for the Duke and Duchess.”

“Onboard ship?”

“Of course. They accept my offer and I am allowed to use the kitchen.”

“Won’t that be dangerous?” said Rebecca.

“Why?”

“Well, the other day you had nothing but criticism for the food on board. Some of your comments may have got back to the chefs. You won’t find many friends in the kitchen.”

Vivet flicked a hand. “Who cares about friends?” he said. “All I want to do is to prepare the good meal. The chefs, they can learn from me.”

“And will you really cook for the Princess Royal and her husband?” asked Polly.

He kissed the tips of his fingers. “The best food they ever taste!”

“I wish that I could be there.”

“Maybe, we play a duet for them, eh?” he joked.

“A command performance,” said Dillman, winking an eye at Polly. “Well, it’s good to have met you, Monsieur Vivet,” he continued. “I’ll be interested to hear what the Duke and Duchess think of your cooking.”

“They will beg me to work for them.” Vivet became serious. “By the way,” he said, turning to Rebecca, “I not see that friend of yours. The one who insulted me.”

“That was Mr. Dugdale,” said Rebecca, “but I’m sure that he didn’t wish to insult you, Monsieur Vivet. He’s such a gentleman.”

“He not polite to me. He treat me like the dirt.”

“You must have been mistaken,” said Dillman. “I had the good fortune to meet Mr. Dugdale over breakfast one day. He struck me as a delightful man. I noticed he had not been around for a while. Someone said he’d been taken ill.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Rebecca.

“I am not,” snapped Vivet. “He deserve to be ill. That man, he deserve to die.”

When the ship docked at Marseilles, everything went very smoothly. Tons of coal were taken on board and the body of Walter Dugdale was carried ashore with his luggage. Brian Kilhendry had organized the transfer carefully. The P&O agent came aboard
and wheeled away the corpse, which was wrapped in a blanket and covered by a tarpaulin. Kilhendry stood at the top of the gangway to make sure there was no hitch. Dillman was part of the watching crowd at the rail on the main deck and he was certain that nobody would have guessed they had just seen a murder victim being unloaded. It was another example of how efficient and resourceful the purser was. Some passengers joined the vessel but none, apart from Dugdale, left. The killer remained on board.

When the ship set sail again, Roland Pountney was in the lounge with Myra and Lilian Cathcart, sipping a cup of tea. He demonstrated his skill in mental arithmetic.

“I’m told that the
Marmora
uses nine thousand tons of coal on a round trip.”

“Goodness!” said Myra. “As much as that, Mr. Pountney?”

“According to the chief engineer,” he confirmed. “It’s a long voyage and those boilers need plenty of fuel. Now, then, if we say that an average ton of coal costs just under a pound—nineteen shillings and sixpence, to be exact—that will give us a total fuel bill of something of the order of 8,775 British pounds sterling.” He grinned amiably. “No wonder they charge us so much.”