[Inspector de Silva 06] - Passage From Nuala Page 16

  De Silva cast about for answers. There was Delaney’s erratic behaviour in the bazaar at Bombay, and later, in the dining room on the ship when he had knocked into one of the tables and charged off with no apology. Then there was the cocaine found in his pocket when his corpse was discovered. Was Diana March afraid her lover was becoming a liability and endangering her plans, whatever they might be?

  **

  Clouds marbled the sky, and searing heat rolled off the desert robbing the sea air of freshness. The Jewel of the East lay at anchor. She had been idle for two hours, waiting with a fleet of ships of all shapes and sizes for the signal for their convoy to enter the canal.

  ‘The entrance is less dramatic than I expected,’ de Silva remarked to Jane. ‘Water disappearing into a flat landscape doesn’t make for a very stirring sight.’

  ‘It would have been more dramatic if a Frenchman called Bartholdi had had his way. He wanted to set up a huge statue of an Egyptian peasant girl at the entrance to the canal. She would have symbolised free navigation and trade.’

  ‘Why did he fail?’

  ‘He wanted too much money, so the Suez Canal company turned him down. He didn’t give up though. Eventually, he managed to sell his idea to America, and his Egyptian peasant became the Statue of Liberty that stands in New York Harbour.’

  De Silva smiled. ‘The things you know, my love.’

  ‘Don’t forget, it was my job to know things once.’

  He felt a jolt, and the smell of engine oil wafted towards him. Plumes of smoke began to rise again from the fore and aft funnels. ‘We must be getting ready to move off,’ he said.

  Jane smiled. ‘Camera at the ready?’

  ‘Of course, I don’t intend to do without photographs to remind us of how we went through the famous Suez Canal.’

  Gradually, the ships formed into a line then the leading one nosed into the entrance to the canal, and the rest followed. De Silva felt the hot wind on his face and saw the ochre desert slip by on either side. The emptiness was interrupted at intervals by unremarkable buildings huddled close to the water bank. The sight was far less romantic than he had expected, but at sunset, the beauty of the desert was revealed. The sands took on every shade of russet and crimson. As dusk approached, shadows deepened, sharply defining the dunes, and lights twinkled in the buildings, giving them a festive air.

  De Silva put away his camera and buttoned his jacket. ‘I think I have enough pictures now. Anyway, it’s getting too dark for them to come out well.’

  The temperature was already dropping. Other passengers had begun to drift inside. He looked at his watch. Soon it would be time to change for dinner, but he doubted he would enjoy it much, his mind too fixed on the search he had to make. He was still worried something would go wrong, or he would find nothing. He needed all the ammunition he could get before he tackled Petrie again. He remembered Doctor Brady; he’d neglected to follow up questioning him about George Ryder’s health. Maybe he would be lucky and find the good doctor available now.

  **

  ‘Doctor Brady has almost finished his evening surgery, Inspector,’ said the nurse de Silva remembered from the evening Delaney had been found dead. ‘If you don’t mind waiting, I’m sure he’ll spare you a few moments.’

  De Silva thanked her and sat down. Ten minutes passed before she reappeared.

  ‘Doctor Brady will see you now, Inspector.’

  Brady’s consulting room was as neat as a new pin. The shelves behind him displayed a range of daunting-looking medical tomes, and numerous framed certificates attesting to his qualifications in various branches of medicine hung on the walls. De Silva noticed their most recent date was twenty years ago.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Brady asked, picking up a pen and rotating it between a thumb and finger. ‘I hope neither you nor Mrs de Silva are under the weather.’

  ‘Both in the best of health, thank you. It’s the Pashley case I’d like to discuss.’

  Brady frowned. ‘I don’t think I’ve anything to add, so I doubt I’ll be of much help, but fire away.’

  When de Silva had explained his interest in Canon Ryder, Brady looked at him shrewdly.

  ‘Under normal circumstances, I would refuse to divulge personal information about my patients, but as you’ve asked me in an official capacity, I’m prepared to make an exception. Yes, I can tell you that Canon Ryder is a very sick man. What I can’t tell you is how long he’ll live. At present, I’m able to keep pain at bay for him, but when that changes, his decline is likely to be swift. Indeed, in these situations, it’s usually a blessing for the patient when that’s the case.’

  He leant back in his chair and steepled his hands. ‘Does that help you, Inspector?’

  ‘It certainly does. Thank you.’

  Chapter 28

  There was dancing for the Tourist Class passengers after dinner. De Silva and Jane stayed until eleven then slipped away, back to their cabin. When he had tucked the items that he needed for his mission in his pocket, he kissed her cheek. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘Good luck, dear,’ she whispered.

  The old steward, Ahmad, was in the cubby hole at the end of the corridor when de Silva arrived.

  ‘I need to check something in Mr Pashley’s cabin,’ he said. ‘Give me the key, would you? Doctor Brady has the third one and the other is still missing.’

  Stiffly, Ahmad got to his feet and shuffled to the key rack on the back wall. He reached down the large ring that held the pass keys to all the cabins on the corridor and started to try and unclip it with his arthritic hands.

  ‘No need for that,’ said de Silva quickly. ‘I see each one’s labelled. I’ll take them as they are.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  De Silva drew a deep breath; the first hurdle was overcome. But as he walked down the corridor, he heard a door open. His heart beat faster. Had he miscalculated? If Diana March came out, he’d need to be very plausible if he was to convince her that nothing was wrong. Quickly, he turned aside to Charles Pashley’s cabin and searched the ring for the key.

  Diana March’s maid emerged, carrying an armful of dresses. She stopped and gave him a wary look. ‘Good evening, sir,’ she faltered.

  ‘Good evening.’

  The dress at the bottom of the pile dislodged itself, putting the rest in danger of falling on the floor. He stepped forward and helped her to rearrange the armful then stood back.

  She flushed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. Don’t let me detain you. I have a few things to see to in here.’

  Her wary expression became timid. ‘Please sir, they’re saying in the laundry that the gentleman who had that cabin was killed. Do you think we’re safe if the killer’s not been caught?’

  Half the ship probably knew what had happened by now, de Silva thought with irritation. ‘You have no need to worry,’ he said firmly. ‘The culprit will be apprehended soon.’

  The maid thanked him but didn’t look much reassured. As she walked away down the corridor, he went into Pashley’s cabin, waiting with the door ajar until he was confident that she’d gone. His heartbeat had returned to its normal rate by the time he was ready to carry on with his task.

  The drawing room of Diana March’s cabin was as immaculate as he remembered. He slipped on the gloves he had brought with him – he didn’t want to leave any tell-tale finger marks on the highly polished furniture – and started his search.

  In a short time, he had established that there was nothing of interest and moved on to the bedroom. This was an equally immaculate room. Inside the long wardrobe that took up one wall, rows of glamorous dresses in chiffons and silks were precisely spaced on the rails. Next to them were shelves filled with neatly folded silk blouses, cashmere wraps, and lace-trimmed underwear. There were elbow-length gloves for evening wear, wrist-length ones made of soft kid for day, and silk scarves in a variety of colours and patterns. Below were hatboxes and dozens of pairs of shoes for different occasions.


  He turned his attention to the dressing table: a kidney-shaped one with a fall of gold brocade draping from the glass top. This was less tidy, and he had to be careful not to knock over any of the bottles and pots of perfume and make-up. To one side was a lacquered Chinese box. He tried the catch; it was unlocked.

  The red-velvet interior contained a gold necklace, a bracelet, and a pair of pearl-drop earrings. He recalled the diamonds Diana March wore when he first saw her on the evening that he and Jane had been invited to dinner by the Petries. Presumably, she was wearing them tonight.

  He lifted the top tray and found several more bracelets underneath, as well as a plain gold ring. It seemed a very modest piece of jewellery for Mrs March. He took it out and examined it, but there was no inscription.

  Replacing the trays, he was about to close the box when it occurred to him that it was unusually deep for what it contained. He tapped the bottom with his knuckles. It gave off a hollow sound. He removed the trays once more and looked at the red velvet closely. There was a tiny, loose tab of material in one corner. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. The false base yielded with one easy motion, to reveal a few folded sheets of paper underneath.

  Glancing at his watch, he saw he had been there twenty minutes. Out of caution, he left the box and went to the drawing room. He opened the door a fraction and listened. The corridor was quiet, but he didn’t want to risk taking much longer. After midnight, some of the occupants of the cabins might return and hear him moving about, or old Ahmad might begin to wonder what was taking him so long and come to investigate.

  Back in the bedroom, he looked at what he’d found. There were no letters, only what looked to be drafts for newspaper articles. They were all in the same handwriting and signed by Charles Pashley. He checked the dates. One was dated for the day Pashley had been found dead. Here was the answer to the puzzle about why he’d found no dispatch for that morning in Pashley’s cabin. Diana March had somehow intercepted it along with these others.

  Quickly, he memorised the relevant points. It surprised him that Diana March had kept the articles. Presumably, she’d had no fear of being found out. Lucky for him, of course. He began to repack the box, but as he did so, one of the pearl earrings rolled off its velvet cushion and onto the thickly carpeted floor. Bending to retrieve the piece, he noticed that one of the pearl drops was missing from the end of its thin, gold wire. He looked around the floor, as a precaution even running the palm of his hand over the carpet, but nothing bounced up from the thick pile. The pearl must have already been broken off, and he hadn’t noticed it when he first opened the box.

  He finished the job and snapped the catch shut. Another glance at his watch told him it was nearly midnight; he must hurry. Ten minutes later, the keys were returned, and he was back with Jane in their cabin.

  ‘I’m certain those articles were intended for the newspaper Charles Pashley wrote for,’ he said.

  ‘I wonder how Mrs March got hold of them. It’s easy to see why she wanted to. From what you’ve told me, there are some very broad hints in them about her past, and each one is more explicit than the last.’

  ‘I’ll have to check with the radio officer whether reports were sent out under Pashley’s name on those days. If they were, I’d be very interested to know the contents.’

  ‘Do you think Mrs March would have written them herself and substituted them for the ones we have here?’

  ‘Very likely. She could have copied Pashley’s writing so as not to raise the radio officer’s suspicions. Provided the newspaper didn’t raise any queries, Pashley wouldn’t have any idea that his own reports weren’t getting through. The ruse would work perfectly until the ship docked at Port Said. Then there would be a risk that a recent newspaper made its way on board.’

  ‘In other words, she needed to deal with Pashley before then. We’re left with the question of who supplied her with the reports. The steward, Chung, do you think?’

  He nodded. ‘It would have been a moment’s work to push them under her door after he’d collected them from Pashley early in the morning. The only risk would be that Pashley departed from his routine and didn’t have one ready until everyone was up and about. It would have been harder for Chung to deliver it then, giving March hardly any time to concoct her own version and tell Chung to take it to the radio office if she needed to.’

  Jane laughed. ‘A clever woman would have had a supply ready.’

  ‘The agility of your criminal mind is impressive, my love. I’ll question Chung again in the morning. If he has any sense, he’ll realise it’s not worth holding anything back now.’

  ‘If Diana March is the murderer, do you think Chung gave her the key to Pashley’s cabin?’

  ‘Possibly, but it doesn’t explain why Pashley came back incapacitated that night. We know Pashley was drinking in the Tourist Class bar that evening. What we don’t know is who he was with. The one drink he bought, according to the account ledger, wouldn’t be enough to make him drunk. Either someone was plying him with more, or they slipped something into his glass. I’m beginning to have an idea who that person was.’

  ‘Harry Delaney?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It fits, doesn’t it? He could have been conspiring with Diana March to make sure Pashley would be out cold by the time he went to bed. Then under the guise of helping him downstairs, Delaney steals the key to the cabin, so Pashley has to ask Chung to let him in with the pass key.’ She frowned. ‘There’s still a catch. How did Delaney give the key to Diana March?’

  ‘Did he? If Chung’s been lying all along, Delaney might be the killer, and Chung is covering up for him.’

  ‘But then why murder Pashley in his cabin? There must be other places where he could have done the deed unobserved.’

  De Silva rubbed the bridge of his nose with a crooked forefinger and yawned. ‘I can’t answer that, and I’m exhausted. Time for bed. We need to be up again in a few hours.’

  ‘I’ll set the alarm for six.’

  Chapter 29

  The alarm clock shrilled. De Silva forced open a bleary eye then closed it and turned over to bury his head in the pillow. He just needed another hour.

  A gentle shake of his shoulders told him that Jane was already awake. ‘You have to get up, dear,’ she whispered. ‘There’s a lot to do.’

  With a groan, he hauled himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head feeling heavy, he lumbered to the bathroom and found toothbrush and toothpaste. Teeth vigorously scrubbed, he felt a little better. He splashed cold water on his face, rubbed it dry with a towel, then dragged a comb through his hair. That would do; he wasn’t going to a party.

  Jane was dressed and ready for the day. As he pulled on his own clothes, he ran over in his mind the questions he wanted to ask Chung.

  Breakfast was being prepared when de Silva arrived in the kitchen quarters. The smell of coffee, kippers, and frying bacon induced a pang of hunger. Sweating kitchen staff pushed trolleys laden with platters of fruit and mounds of pastries. Two kitchen porters passed him carrying a huge, double-handled cauldron bubbling with porridge.

  He found the officer in charge and asked for Chung to be brought to a room where they could speak privately. Waiting for him, de Silva tapped an impatient rhythm on the table top. He needed answers from the man quickly. Unless they were held up as they exited the canal, there were only two more hours before they would be out of it and into the Mediterranean Sea. After that, it would take about the same length of time to reach Port Said and, he hoped, the local police officers.

  When the door opened, and Chung saw who waited for him, he tried to turn and run. The officer who had brought him in grabbed him. Twisting his arm behind his back, he propelled him into the room and pushed him into a chair.

  ‘The police are coming on board at Port Said,’ said de Silva. ‘If you’re to have a chance of avoiding being handed over to them, you’d better answer me truthfully. No holding anything back thi
s time.’

  Chung’s head dropped. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Were you stealing the messages you collected from Mr Pashley each night and giving them to Mrs March?’

  Chung’s bowed head nodded.

  ‘What happened after that?’ There was silence. ‘Look at me,’ snapped de Silva.

  The steward looked up reluctantly. ‘She would tell me to come back in half an hour. She would give me back the message and tell me to take it to the radio room as usual.’

  ‘Would the messages always be the same ones as you’d brought her?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. They were always in an envelope.’

  De Silva drew his own conclusions.

  ‘What else did she tell you to do for her?’

  ‘She said I must tell no one that she sometimes left her cabin late at night. If I did, she’d see to it I lost my job.’

  ‘Did you lie about their movements for anyone else? If you want to change your story, you’d better do it now.’

  Chung shook his head. ‘No, sir, everything else was the truth.’ He shivered. ‘Will I be able to stay on the ship? I have a family. If I lose my job, they’ll have nothing.’

  De Silva felt some sympathy for him. Chung had been a fool, but a hard life never made for good decisions. Now that the fellow was cooperating, maybe he would put in a good word for him, but ultimately, the decision would be in Captain McDowell’s hands.

  ‘You should have considered the risks in the first place,’ he said sharply. ‘The captain will decide.’

  He nodded to the officer. ‘Keep him here for the moment. He may have something to eat, but he must talk to no one. I’ll send a message when he’s allowed to go back to work.’