[Inspector de Silva 06] - Passage From Nuala Page 14

  ‘So delightful to meet you,’ she continued. ‘I’m all alone this afternoon. I told Meadows I didn’t need her.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘To tell the truth, I can’t abide hearing that cough of hers for another minute.’

  ‘I’m glad to say I’ve been very fortunate in being able to persuade Mrs de Silva to keep me company.’

  Clara Pilkington raised the lorgnette she wore on a gold chain round her neck. Her expression resembled that of a sceptical farmer inspecting livestock at his local market. Jane returned a polite smile.

  ‘How is your husband getting on with his investigations?’ asked Mrs Pilkington.

  ‘Making good progress, I believe.’

  Mrs Pilkington harrumphed. ‘You must tell him if he needs any advice that he’s welcome to consult me.’

  Jane saw a twinkle in Lady Caroline’s eye. ‘I wasn’t aware you had experience of unmasking criminals, Mrs Pilkington.’

  ‘Oh, not personally of course, but I read a great many detective novels, and one begins to have an instinct for these things.’

  Jane would have liked to say that Shanti’s instincts had been honed by real life, not just the pages of a book, but she decided to refrain.

  ‘Of course, my husband and I knew dear Sir Arthur Conan Doyle well. He often came to visit us at our home in London. Such a charming man, and an excellent sportsman as well as a talented writer. His way with words was unsurpassed. We had long talks about his work, and I flatter myself that my advice was a great help to him. He hinted that he would like to put me in one of his stories, but I said, “No, I never like to put myself forward”.’

  Jane suppressed a giggle and noticed that Lady Caroline’s lips twitched. Fortunately, Clara Pilkington was too preoccupied with her reminiscences to notice.

  After a little more conversation, they took their leave. ‘I wonder if she really knew Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,’ said Lady Caroline. ‘If that story about his wanting to put her in a book is true, what a pity she turned him down. I’m sure he would have portrayed her in a most amusing way. Do you think she would have been the villain or the victim?’

  Clara Pilkington’s fluting voice interrupted them. ‘Mrs de Silva, I nearly forgot. The singer fellow – the one who was found stabbed – I’m certain I saw him one evening with Mrs March. I’d come out after dinner to admire the stars with some of my dinner companions. The two of them were skulking in the shadows as if they didn’t want to be seen, but very little passes me by.’

  She sniffed. ‘It seemed odd company to keep. I hope Emma Chiltern isn’t going to be embarrassed by her prospective daughter-in-law.’

  ‘I’m sure she hopes quite the reverse,’ said Lady Caroline as Clara Pilkington waddled away.

  Jane’s brow creased. ‘But she has given us something new to think about.’

  ‘You must tell your husband, and I’ll tell William. He won’t be happy that the news of Delaney’s murder has got out already. I can’t imagine who told Mrs Pilkington.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I wonder if anyone has had a chance to look through Delaney’s belongings. There might be something interesting there.’

  ‘I don’t expect there’s been time, but I’m sure there will be.’

  Chapter 23

  De Silva frowned. ‘What do you base this accusation on?’

  ‘Diana March isn’t her real name,’ said George Ryder. ‘When I first came across her, it was Sarah Betts. I can’t say I knew her well, but at one time, she lived in the parish where my church was situated.’

  ‘Did she have a connection to Charles Pashley?’

  ‘For a while, yes. I used to see them about together. They were a striking couple and hard to miss. But Sarah wasn’t the sort of young woman who’d endure scraping along if she didn’t have to. She was trying to get on as an actress; she didn’t have a lot of talent, but she had the looks. It was no surprise when she set her cap at one of the wealthy men who hung about the stage door. Eventually, she married him. We didn’t see her around after that.’

  ‘What happened to her husband?’

  ‘He died. It was all over the papers at the time. They hadn’t been married much more than a year when he fell down a steep flight of stairs and broke his neck. She claimed it was an accident. The police were suspicious and charged her with his murder, but she played the grieving widow, and the jury found her not guilty.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘You might say it was the performance of a lifetime.’

  ‘How long ago would this have been?’

  ‘I’ve been gone from England for over eleven years. If I remember rightly, it happened about a year before I departed.’

  With William Petrie’s contacts, thought de Silva, it would be easy enough to check Ryder’s story. If the case had been a sensation, it surprised him that no one on board seemed to have realised that Diana March was an impostor, but when he remarked on it to Ryder, the cleric shook his head.

  ‘She’s a clever woman, Inspector. She always contrived to hide her face behind a black veil when she was coming in or out of the courts. Only people in the courtroom would have seen her clearly. Her husband’s family were well off, but they didn’t move in high social circles. Her risk of being recognised by the denizens of Cabin Class would be minimal. Her appearance has changed considerably too. Far more sophisticated than when she was younger.’

  ‘Polish paid for by her ill-gotten gains,’ his sister muttered sourly.

  Yet, she still took the precaution of changing her name and claiming she had never been to England before, thought de Silva. ‘Do you think she remembers you?’ he asked Ryder.

  He shrugged. ‘I doubt it very much. I don’t imagine she took much notice of a humble clergyman in the first place, and now there are my scars. Most people avoid looking at me too closely, either out of tact or repugnance.’

  But if she had a fling with Charles Pashley, de Silva was sure she would have remembered the journalist. Had he threatened to drop hints about her past in his dispatches home? According to Venetia de Vere and Angela Meadows, he was a spiteful man. He might have derived great pleasure from tormenting Diana March with the fear of exposure. But he was running ahead of himself. It was still possible that Ryder and his sister were blackening Diana March’s character to serve their own ends. He needed to speak to William Petrie.

  **

  At the lobby to the Cabin Class section of the ship, the steward on duty waved de Silva through. They’re getting to know me, he thought wryly. He no longer needed to produce his badge. At first, it had been just as well he had brought it with him; he had almost left it at home, but old habits die hard.

  He sighed. The steward’s recognition brought it home that he needed to find the solution to this case quickly and make it up to Jane for the unsatisfactory start to their holiday. Their plans to enjoy lazy days reading and chatting in the sun, interrupted only by the need to eat delicious meals, or perhaps play a few of the deck sports on offer had been rudely swept aside. He’d also looked forward to having the chance to have a good look at the Suez Canal and take some photographs as they went through it on the last stage of their journey to Port Said. If this investigation wasn’t resolved by then, he doubted he’d have time to give Ferdinand de Lesseps’ remarkable feat of engineering much of his attention.

  There was no sign of William Petrie in the Cabin Class bar or any of the lounges. He would have to go to his stateroom and hope to find him there. But when he arrived at the door, he heard several voices inside and hesitated. If the Petries were entertaining guests, his intrusion wouldn’t be welcome. Then he recognised Jane’s voice. He raised his hand and knocked; a moment later, the door opened.

  ‘Ah good, I was about to send someone to find you, de Silva.’

  Petrie ushered him into the stateroom. He looked grim. ‘The ladies have brought us some disturbing information. News of Delaney’s murder has already leaked. Mrs Pilkington raised the subject. It’s exactly what I didn’t want to happen, and I intend to find out who’s responsible.’

>   Doctor Brady’s nurse came into de Silva’s mind. She’d cared for Barbara Ross, and hadn’t Mrs Meadows said she also attended Mrs Pilkington? He decided not to pin the blame on her on the strength of a hunch. There were more important things to deal with.

  ‘But there’s more,’ Petrie continued. ‘Why don’t you explain, Mrs de Silva?’

  Quickly, Jane went over the conversation with Clara Pilkington. ‘If there was something between Diana March and Harry Delaney,’ she finished, ‘isn’t it a clear indication she’s not as innocent as she’d like people to think?’

  ‘We’ll need more than gossip to prove Diana March was involved in either of the murders, but we can make a start by getting on with the overdue job of looking through Delaney’s belongings,’ said Petrie. ‘I’ve spoken to McDowell and found out what’s been done with them. His passport’s in safe keeping, but everything else was packed up and stowed away awaiting our arrival in England. McDowell gave instructions that, if the murderer isn’t unmasked before then, it’s all to be handed over to Scotland Yard. No one knows if there are relatives who need to be informed either. When Delaney signed on, he didn’t offer the names of any next of kin. McDowell proposes to leave tracking them down, if they exist, to the Yard as well.’

  ‘Are Delaney’s belongings still stowed away?’ asked de Silva.

  ‘No, they’re on their way here. I asked for them, so we can have a good look through everything. While we’re waiting, you may as well tell us whether you found out anything relevant from Mrs Meadows.’

  ‘I believe I did. Unexpected as it was, Mrs Meadows and Canon Ryder, who turn out to be brother and sister, proved to be a source of great enlightenment. Particularly in view of what my wife and Lady Caroline have learned.’

  ‘We’ve only Ryder’s and Meadows’ word for it that Mrs March has a murky past,’ said William Petrie as de Silva came to the end of his story. ‘We can’t possibly accuse her without having cast-iron evidence in our possession. You may not think Arthur Chiltern’s much of a force to be reckoned with, but the Chilterns are a very influential family. His father, Sir Robert, has the ear of the prime minister. If we’re to accuse a woman who’s about to become part of that family, we need to be absolutely sure of our ground.’

  ‘Perhaps we will be after we’ve looked through Mr Delaney’s belongings,’ said Lady Caroline.

  ‘I wish I shared your optimism, my dear.’

  There were footsteps in the corridor and a knock on the door. William Petrie called out and a steward came in, weighed down by two leather cases that looked as if they had accompanied their owner on many journeys. The steward’s face registered surprise as his glance took in the occupants of the room, but it soon reverted to a blank expression.

  ‘Captain McDowell said I was to deliver these to you, sir. Where would you like them put?’

  ‘Next to the door will do.’ William Petrie fished in his pocket and brought out a few coins. He handed them to the steward. ‘No need to mention this to anyone, do you understand?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The steward pocketed the coins and smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. Very generous of you.’

  The door closed behind him. William Petrie rubbed his hands.

  ‘So, what have we here? Mrs de Silva, will you and your husband take one? Lady Caroline and I will look through the other.’

  The suitcase that the de Silvas were to search made a rustling sound as de Silva dragged it over the thick-pile carpet. With a grunt, he hoisted it onto a low table and snapped open the two brass catches. Throwing back the lid, he saw that the case contained a pile of old programmes from musicals, presumably ones that Delaney had been in. Jane pulled out a few and leafed through them to find cast lists.

  ‘They’re shows Delaney was in on Broadway. He looks to have been quite successful. Perhaps he kept them in the hope of impressing the producers of any new shows he wanted to get a part in.’

  Delving into the case, de Silva found more. As he opened the top one, a newspaper cutting fluttered out.

  ‘Only an assortment of clothes in this one,’ Petrie was saying. ‘But we’d better have them all out, I suppose.’ He piled shirts, trousers, and underclothes on the floor and pushed them aside then began to run his hand over the lining of the case and into its interior pockets.

  ‘Ah! What have we here?’ He held up a packet of letters.

  Lady Caroline took them from him. ‘Poor man,’ she said sadly. ‘It seems hateful to pry into someone’s private life like this.’

  ‘Your sensitivity does you credit, my dear, but sometimes these things are unavoidable.’

  ‘I know.’

  Undoing the packet, she scanned the letters with a frown. ‘They’re from Mrs de Vere. Poor lady, she really was very smitten with Mr Delaney.’

  ‘May I see them, Lady Caroline?’ asked de Silva.

  Lady Caroline handed him the letters. They were couched in the kind of flowery language he would have expected from Venetia de Vere, and they smelt of lilacs. He passed them on to William Petrie.

  ‘There’s nothing compromising here,’ said Petrie when he reached the end. ‘Mrs de Vere might be distressed to learn that Delaney had kept them, however. I wonder why he did.’

  ‘Do you think he had some sinister motive?’ asked his wife.

  Petrie shrugged. ‘You say she’s well known as a writer. They might embarrass her if they were made public. Possibly he thought she’d be prepared to offer him something for their return. I suggest we don’t inform her that they’ve been found. If she did have something to do with Delaney’s murder, they provide evidence of a motive.’

  He glanced at de Silva. ‘You disagree?’

  ‘They might indicate Mrs de Vere had a motive, but since the steward Ahmad confirmed her story that she didn’t leave her cabin around the time of Delaney’s murder, where was her opportunity?’

  ‘A fair point.’ Petrie looked down at the newspaper cutting on the floor.

  ‘What’s that?’

  De Silva picked up the cutting and read out the headline: ‘Fake Minister in Charity Fraud. It’s dated three years ago. A couple claiming to be an American Baptist minister and his wife raised money for a charity that turned out to be bogus.’

  ‘Is there a photograph?’ asked Petrie.

  De Silva held out the cutting. ‘A very blurry one.’

  Petrie looked at the cutting. ‘If it is Delaney, it’s odd he kept it. Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘Carelessness, perhaps.’

  ‘Is there anything else for us to look at?’

  ‘There’s this letter.’ Lady Caroline held it up. ‘It’s unsigned and the writing is different from the others. I think it may help us.’

  She handed it to her husband. ‘Would you read it out, dear?’

  Clearing his throat, Petrie took the piece of paper.

  ‘Harry, please let’s not quarrel. I beg you to forgive me. Now we’re rid of Pashley, everything will be different. You need have no worries about A. If you want, we’ll give up the plan and be together straight away. We can leave the ship at Port Said.’

  Petrie looked up. ‘I can’t read the next sentence. The ink is smudged, as if the writer shed a tear.’

  ‘Or wanted Delaney to think they did,’ said Jane.

  Petrie smiled. ‘You have the mind of a detective, Mrs de Silva.’ He read on. ‘Only you matter to me. You must decide for us both. Wait for me after midnight at the usual place.’

  Passing the letter to de Silva, William Petrie frowned. ‘What do you make of that?’

  The writing was certainly very different to Venetia de Vere’s. Hers had been embellished with every possible flourish and curlicue, while the author of this letter had a much more angular style. The paper was plain; unlike Venetia de Vere’s, it was unscented.

  Petrie stood up. ‘I need to clear my head. Will you join me in the bar, de Silva? Ladies, will you excuse us?’

  ‘Of course.’

  In the Cabin C
lass bar, Petrie led the way to a table in a quiet alcove. He signalled to a steward who hurried over. ‘Whisky for me. The same for you, de Silva?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Difficult subject to discuss with ladies present,’ said Petrie after the steward had gone to fetch the drinks. ‘We only have Ryder’s and his sister’s word for it that Diana March has a past that she’d stick at nothing to conceal. They may be making up the whole story to throw us off the scent. For Ryder, revealing his past to us would be a small price to pay for saving his neck.’

  A smartly dressed couple passed the table. He paused until they were out of earshot. ‘That letter could have been written by a man or a woman,’ he went on.

  From the writing, it was plausible, thought de Silva; although was it really the way a man would express himself?

  ‘From what we know of Ryder’s past – there was a note of distaste in Petrie’s voice – I wouldn’t discount the possibility there was something between him and Delaney. We know Pashley came back to his cabin in a bad state that night. What if Ryder put Delaney up to getting Pashley drunk? That would have allowed Ryder to finish the job later, when everything was quiet. Afterwards, they fell out, and Ryder needed to be rid of Delaney too.’

  De Silva searched for a polite way of saying that this theory contained a lot of assumptions, and still didn’t explain how Ryder had gained access to Pashley’s cabin, but William Petrie wasn’t to be stopped.

  ‘The sister is called Angela, isn’t she? She could be the “A” the letter mentions.’

  Glancing at the steward weaving his way towards them balancing a silver tray carrying their drinks, Petrie was silent once more. The steward deposited two cut-glass tumblers of whisky and a clean ashtray on the table. It was made of brass in the shape of a tiny swimming pool with a svelte diver ready to plunge in. Beautifully designed, thought de Silva, like everything he had seen in Cabin Class.

  Petrie pulled out his gold cigarette case – this time de Silva refused the offer of a cigarette. Petrie lit up. ‘As for the plan, they might have had some idea of using Ryder’s sister’s connection with Clara Pilkington to defraud the old lady. Perhaps the original intention was to cut the sister in, but then Delaney rejected the idea.’