Murder on the Marmora (16 page)

“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 daughter.”

“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.”

“It sounds as if I’m in illustrious company,” said Goss.

“It’s where you belong.”

“My wife thinks I belong at home and my daughter believes I ought to spend at least two hours a day listening to her as she practices on the flute.”

“Women—God bless them! They never understand, do they?”

“No, Sir Alistair.”

“What woman would keep relics of ancient Egypt beside her bed?”

“You won’t mention this to anyone, will you?” asked Goss.

“No, old chap! Lips sealed and all that.”

“There’s only one other person who even knows that they’re in here.”

“The ghost of Rameses?”

Goss laughed. “Apart from him. No, I showed them to Mr. Dillman as well.”

“Ah, that countryman of yours I met at dinner. Capital fellow. Struck me as a man who understood the meaning of discretion.
We invented it, of course,” said Sir Alistair. “Discretion is our watchword. Been the basis of British diplomacy for donkey’s years.”

“Gerorge Dillman would have made a good diplomat. He’s very tactful.”

“But far too handsome. Can’t have that in an embassy. Not a British one, anyway. Too distracting. Well,” he said, “you have a perfect illustration of that in your family.”

“Do I, Sir Alistair?”

“Don’t say you haven’t noticed the way that your daughter looks at Mr. Dillman. It’s the same way you look at those relics of yours—covetously.”

“Polly is still very young.”

“Old enough to entertain a passion or two, Mr. Goss.”

“Well, yes,” the other said thoughtfully. “I suppose that she is.”

“How old was your wife when you first met her?”

“Now that you come to mention it, not much above Polly’s age.”

“There you are, then,” said Sir Alistair. “No need to worry about it. Calf-love, that’s all. Mr. Dillman is a kind chap. Nothing untoward will happen. When you have features like that, you must be accustomed to that sort of unsolicited admiration. Never happened to me, alas,” he went on with a ripe chuckle. “I had to work hard to get women to take notice of me.”

“Perhaps I should have a word with my daughter.”

“Fatal. Never forgive you, old chap. Least said, soonest mended.”

“I knew that Polly had taken a liking to Mr. Dillman but I didn’t realize it went deeper than that. The truth is, I don’t pay enough attention to her.”

“How many times have I heard a woman say that? Their national anthem.”

“Yes,” sighed Goss. “And my wife has written most of the verses.”

“Thank you again, my friend,” said Sir Alistair, shaking his hand. “Can’t tell you what a thrill it’s been, getting a glimpse inside the mind of an expert. Never an expert at anything myself,
except looking smart in a military uniform. Time for a smoke?”

“I think that I do have. I like a pipe of tobacco at this hour.”

“Then let’s go and join the others, shall we? Promised to meet Roland Pountney there. Cigarette man, but I’m trying to convert him to cigars. By the way,” he said, opening the door to lead the way out, “you really ought to think again about what Pountney told you. Even a small investment could bring you rich dividends.”

“I won’t say that I’m not tempted.”

“Word to the wise: Think about it, Mr. Goss. Get a stake in this hotel while you can and you may end up being able to afford your own pyramid. Like that, eh?” he asked with a laugh. “I know that I would.”

Dillman had to wait until late afternoon before he found the man on his own. Karl-Jurgen Lenz was standing at the rail on the promenade deck, gazing out to sea. A stiff breeze was plucking at the German’s hat and coat. Dillman strolled across to him.

“I did warn you, my friend,” he said pleasantly.

“
Warn
me?” asked Lenz, turning a hostile glare on him. “Who are you?”

“My name is George Dillman and I tried to tell you that taking photographs of the Duke and Duchess of Fife was not allowed. Someone came and stopped you.”

“Ah, yes. I remember you now.” He stood bolt upright to introduce himself. “Karl-Jurgen Lenz.” There was no handshake. “I am a photographer. And you?”

“I’m just a passenger who’s enjoying a round-trip to Australia.”

“Oh, I see. Another rich American?”

“Far from it, Herr Lenz. We’re not all millionaires, believe me.”

“I speak to other Americans on the ship. They all have money, they all have time to go round the world. Me, I have to work for a living. It’s a matter of honor.”

“It’s a matter of necessity with me,” said Dillman, seeing an
opportunity to introduce Dugdale’s name. “I had to slave away for a long time to pay for this trip, so I’m determined to get my money’s worth. But if you’ve met plenty of Americans, you may have come across a man called Walter Dugdale.”

Lenz scowled. “Yes, I meet him.”

“You don’t sound as if you liked him very much.”

“I didn’t.”

“Any particular reason?”

“No, Mr. Dillman. I just could not give him respect.”

“I found him a delightful fellow,” said Dillman. “Hoped I’d get to know him a little better but he seems to have disappeared. Haven’t seen him for days.”

“He left the ship at Marseilles.”

“Oh? I thought he was going all the way to Perth.”

“Someone say he was taken ill,” explained Lenz. “The details I do not know, but he is no longer on the
Marmora
. That is good. I do not miss him.”

“Well, I do. And I’m sorry to hear that he was too ill to stay with us. Mr. Dugdale was such a friendly character.”

“He was not friendly to me. Let us forget him. He has gone for good.”

There was a deep satisfaction in his voice. Dillman could see how much the German disliked Dugdale, but he did not press him on the subject. He remembered the money that Lenz had deposited with the deputy purser.

“That camera of yours looks like a very expensive one, Herr Lenz,” he said.

“I only work with the best equipment.”

“Does that include all the stuff you need to develop photographs?”

“Of course. When I travel, I take everything. Is in my cabin now.”

“Isn’t that rather dangerous?” suggested Dillman. “That equipment must have cost you a lot. Wouldn’t it be safer to let the purser keep it locked up for you?”

“I need to use it every day.”

“But there’s always the risk that it could be stolen. I know it’s unlikely but it’s not a chance I’d like to take. What would happen if your camera disappeared?”

“It will not, Mr. Dillman. I have been on cruises before.”

“Nevertheless, that equipment of yours is still a temptation.”

“Only another photographer would want to steal it.”

“Or destroy it,” said Dillman. “Have you thought of that? If you had a rival on board—or someone you fell out with—he might take the camera out of spite so that he could toss it over the side of the ship. I think you should be more careful.”

Lenz was angry. “Why you tell me this?” he demanded.

“I’m only offering you friendly advice.”