Murder on the Minnesota (12 page)

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“No,” he conceded, “and the truthful answer is that I don’t know Miss Masefield very well at all. I was introduced to her at a crowded party. Mine was one of dozens of faces that must have flashed before her. She obviously doesn’t remember me.”

“Yet you remember her, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Do you blame me?”

“Of course not. Jenny is gorgeous.” She narrowed her eyes. “Who is this Lord Wilmshurst that you mentioned?”

“A mutual friend of ours.”

“Are those the kinds of circles that Jenny moves in?”

“Apparently.”

“Where does this English lord live?”

“In London, Mrs. Gilpatrick.”

“Which part?”

“Mayfair, probably. It’s a wealthy family.”

“You went to a party at his house,” she pressed. “Can’t you recall where it was?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said evasively. “Some friends took me there in a cab and I’d had a fair bit to drink by that time. All I know is that it was a splendid occasion and that this vision of delight called Genevieve Masefield wafted past me.”

“I can see that she’d make more of an impression than Mrs. Van Bergen.”

Kincaid gave a ripe chuckle. “I’d have to agree with you there.” He stroked his mustache. “Do you happen to know where Miss Masefield is heading?”

“Japan and China. It’s a round trip.”

“Capital!”

“What about you, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Shanghai is my destination. If things work out, I plan to stay there for a while.”

“You have business interests there?”

“Of a kind,” he said easily. “Miss Masefield is on holiday, I assume?”

“Jenny wanted to see something of the Orient. She’s a brave woman.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know that I’d care to travel so far on my own.”

“It’s a lengthy voyage,” he noted with a smile. “Intense friendships tend to develop at sea. It’s inevitable, I suppose, when we’re all thrown together like this in the middle of nowhere. I don’t think Miss Masefield will be alone for long. Do you?”

______

Rutherford Blaine was reading a book in the library when Dillman found him. As a shadow fell across him, the older man looked up. He was pleased to see the newcomer.

“Mr. Dillman,” he said. “We missed you in the dining saloon.”

“I didn’t feel hungry, Mr. Blaine. And I had some work to do. I just wondered if I could have a quiet word with you?”

“By all means. Take a seat.”

“It can wait until later, if you’d prefer.”

Blaine put the book aside. “Now is as good a time as any.”

“Thank you,” said Dillman, sitting beside him. “What are you reading?”

“James Fenimore Cooper.”

“The
Last of the Mohicans?
”

“
The Pathfinder
. Equally bloodthirsty and with the same improbable plot, but I love his books. They’ve got such vitality. I just wish his characters wouldn’t have such interminable speeches.”

“Yes, they do go on at times, don’t they?”

“It struck me that Mrs. Van Bergen might have been created by Cooper. She could hold her own with the best of his talkers.” They traded a grin. “But I’m sure that you didn’t come here to discuss her.”

“No, Mr. Blaine.”

“So how can I help you?”

“I’m not sure that you can, Mr. Blaine,” admitted Dillman, “but it’s worth a try. Do you recall the first evening we dined together?”

“Vividly. We had a delightful meal with Mr. and Mrs. Chang.”

“That’s right.”

“I can tell you every item on the menu, if you wish.”

Dillman gave a brief smile. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Blaine. All that I want to know is whether or not you saw him as well.”

“Saw whom?”

“The man who was watching us.”

“I didn’t know that anyone was. Are you sure about this?”

“Fairly sure.”

Blaine was concerned. “When did you become aware of it, Mr. Dillman?”

“Towards the end of the meal. When we were alone together.”

“Did you see who the man was?”

“No,” said Dillman. “When I turned around, he’d gone.”

“Yes, I remember now. You were distracted for a moment. I thought you were looking for someone. Now I know why.”

“You saw nothing, then?”

“Nothing and nobody. I was too preoccupied.”

“What about later on, Mr. Blaine?”

“Later on?”

“Yes,” said Dillman patiently. “After we parted company that night. Presumably you went back to your cabin.”

“Straightaway. I was tired.”

“Did you see anyone lurking about in the corridor?”

“Not a soul. Why? Did you?”

“Yes and no,” explained Dillman. “I didn’t so much see him as become aware of his presence. When I went into my cabin, there was definitely someone outside. I waited a few minutes and opened the door again.”

“What happened?”

“I caught a glimpse of someone disappearing around the corner.”

“Was it the same man you saw earlier?”

“I think so, Mr. Blaine, but I couldn’t be certain. I didn’t get a proper look at him on either occasion. Since you have a cabin in the same corridor, I wondered if you’d caught sight of him.”

“No, Mr. Dillman. This is the first I’ve heard of this man.” His brow furrowed. “You don’t suppose that it could have been Father Slattery, do you?”

“It definitely wasn’t him.”

“He must have been watching us in the dining saloon. He knew when to pounce.”

“This was someone else. Father Slattery wouldn’t have run away.”

“That’s true.”

“I chased the man for a while, but he gave me the slip.”

“How odd! And how disturbing! Have you reported this to the purser?”

“No, I wanted to raise it with you first.”

“Why have you left it so long?”

“I was waiting to see if the man would surface again yesterday.”

“And did he?”

Dillman shook his head. “Maybe I was imagining the whole thing.”

“Or maybe what you saw—or thought you saw—were two entirely different people. Is there any reason why someone onboard should stalk you?”

“None at all, Mr. Blaine.”

“Let’s hope that it doesn’t happen again, then. It must be quite worrying.”

“I’d just like to get to the bottom of it. Since you can’t help me,” said Dillman, rising to his feet, “I’ll leave you in peace to enjoy
The Pathfinder
.”

“I’m sorry that I can’t solve the mystery.”

“Perhaps there isn’t one to solve.”

“I wonder,” said Blaine thoughtfully. “You’re an observant man, Mr. Dillman. I’m quite certain that you saw somebody. Who he was and why he was there, I have no idea. Do let me know if this kind of thing happens again.”

“I will, Mr. Blaine.”

“In the meantime, I’ll keep my own eyes peeled.”

“Thank you.”

They exchanged farewells and Dillman went out of the library. Blaine picked up his book and opened it at the page he
had reached earlier. He gazed down at the words, but made no attempt to read them. His mind was grappling with something else.

Fine weather enticed the majority of the passengers out on deck. The bright sunlight was deceptive, however, and many people returned to their cabins for warmer clothing when they felt the sharp pinch of the wind. Genevieve Masefield was glad to be outside again. The fresh air was bracing and helped to clear her brain. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that she was having difficulty assimilating it. Without even trying, she had been accepted into Gilpatrick’s circle, and was now committed to a song recital with his wife as her accompanist. Having unwittingly aroused the interest of an English artist, she was also pursued by another fellow countryman, and feared that Willoughby Kincaid could pose a serious danger. If he knew Lord Wilmshurst, he might also be aware of her broken engagement, and Genevieve did not wish that portion of her life to be resurrected. Fay Brinkley was the one real friend she had made, but she did not sit easily at the Gilpatricks’ table and was unlikely to be invited to join them again. Genevieve felt that she was cut off from her true ally.

News of the murder had come like a thunderbolt. She could still not believe it. Whenever she remembered the luncheon with Father Slattery, she was overcome with remorse. There had been moments when she hated the man. All that she felt now was sympathy and deep regret. Whatever his faults, he did not deserve to be killed in such a way. Genevieve had a real sense of loss. It took courage to embark on a mission into the unknown, and Father Slattery had taken on the assignment without a tremor. She imagined how distressed his colleagues in China would be when the dreadful tidings filtered through to them. He would not easily be replaced. The reflection only stiffened her resolve to help in the search for his killer. Until he was found, everything else had to fade into the background.

David Seymour-Jones was elusive. Having established that he was not in his cabin or in any of the public rooms, she ventured out on deck. It took her almost half an hour to track him down. The artist was sitting among the steerage passengers on the main deck, sketching a group of children as they played in the sunshine. Genevieve came up behind him and looked over his shoulder at the drawing.

“That’s wonderful!” she observed.

He spun round. “Oh, Miss Masefield! I didn’t realize you were there.”

Leaping to his feet, he raised his hat in greeting. A change of clothing had not improved his smartness. He wore a crumpled suit of green velvet, a long scarf that was entwined around his neck like a boa constrictor, and a straw hat with random holes in it.

“I didn’t expect to find you down here,” he said, indicating the crowded deck. “You’re rather out of place in steerage.”

“I was looking for you, Mr. Seymour-Jones.”

He was astonished. “Were you? Why?”

“I wanted to thank you for that portrait you did of me.”

“Oh, it was only a quick sketch.”

“It was extremely well drawn nevertheless.”

“I hope you weren’t offended.”

“Not really,” she said guardedly, “though I would have preferred to know that I was your subject. You took me rather unawares.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It was certainly that.”

“A
pleasant
surprise?” he said, fishing for a compliment that never came. “You were such a perfect subject for an artist. Your face has classical lines.”

“Thank you.”

He was staring at her quizzically as he tried to read her mind. Encouraged by the fact that she had come in search of him, he was disappointed by the coolness of her manner. It
made him retreat into an awkward silence. When he tried to produce a friendly smile, it came out as an embarrassed smirk. Genevieve shifted her feet uncomfortably.

“I see that you’re keeping yourself busy,” she noted.

He glanced at his sketch pad. “Yes, Miss Masefield. Drawing began as a hobby, but it’s now a compulsion for me. I’ve made dozens of sketches already,” he said, flicking through the pages. “I like to get a quick outline down first, then put in the detail later. Those children playing, for instance. There was such joy and spontaneity in their movement. If they knew that I was watching them, they’d be stiff and self-conscious.”

“Do you always sneak up on your subjects?”

“I’d hate you to think that’s what I did to you,” said Seymour-Jones with a look of dismay. “I draw what I see in front of me. You happened to be there at the time.”

Genevieve did not believe him. “What about your other models?”

“One or two actually asked me to draw them.”

“Did they?”

“Yes, Miss Masefield.”

“Who were they?”

“The first was a Catholic priest,” he said. “I met him down here yesterday. He couldn’t wait for me to draw his portrait. He more or less insisted on it. His name was Father Slattery. You must have seen him around.”

“I believe that I have,” she said tactfully. “Why was he so keen?”

“He’s a missionary on his way to China. That’s why he made such a point of befriending some of the Chinese passengers. Did you know that he could speak the language?” She shook her head. “Not fluently, perhaps, but he made himself understood. Anyway, he asked me to draw him in the middle of this little group. I think he was going to send the picture back home to his friends.”

“Like a photograph.”

“Yes, Miss Masefield.”

There was another long pause as he searched her eyes for signs of approbation. Genevieve felt sorry for him, but she gave no hint of it. Being forced to talk to him was in the nature of a trial to her. Under the circumstances, however, it was unavoidable. The effort of thanking him for a portrait that had actually unsettled her at a deep level simply had to be made. David Seymour-Jones had information that might prove valuable in the murder investigation.

“Did you talk to Father Slattery at all?” she asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“He looked such an interesting character.”

“He was, Miss Masefield. And, yes, we had a long chat.”

“Did he say anything about his work in China?”

“A great deal,” replied Seymour-Jones. “He was a dedicated man. While I was drawing his portrait, he sat there and told me all about himself. He had a difficult life before he came into the Church, but he didn’t whine about it. He was a Stoic.”

“What did he do with your drawing?”

“Showed it to everyone else at first. He was so proud of it.”

“That’s not surprising, Mr. Seymour-Jones. You’re a brilliant artist.”

“Am I?”

“You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Perhaps not,” he said shyly, “but I would like you to tell me what you really felt about the picture that I drew of you. Don’t be afraid to be critical.”

“My only criticism is that I didn’t know you were there.”

“Supposing you had known?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you have let me carry on?” he wondered. “If I’d had more time, I could have produced something far better than that. A color portrait with real depth to it.” He bit his lip as he studied her. “I don’t suppose you’d sit for me properly, would you?”

“I’m afraid that I don’t have the time.”

“Is that the real reason?”