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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Ocean Liner Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
A maritime mystery from Edward Marston, author of the bestselling Railway Detective series. Bombay, 1909. Genevieve Masefield and George Dillman make a living as detectives aboard the early twentieth century's most extravagant ocean liners. From the members of first class in all their finery, to the card cheats and pickpockets plying their trade, they've experienced more than their share of humanity. For their latest voyage, the Salsette boasts a pair of travellers who feign ignorance of each other but there is clearly no love lost between them. Then there's an elderly man whose powers of deduction may be based on more earthly techniques than the mystical energy he claims to possess. And there's a young woman and her mother who find their way into the middle of every bit of trouble aboard. The lives of this group of travellers are set to intersect in ways none of them could have foreseen on dry land - including in a murder. Previously published under the name Conrad Allen, the Ocean Liner series casts off for a new generation of readers.
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Seitenzahl: 367
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON
‘A master storyteller’
Daily Mail
‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’
Time Out
‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’
Historical Novels Review
‘The past is brought to life with brilliant colours, combined with a perfect whodunnit. Who needs more?’
The Guardian
5
MURDER ON THE SALSETTE
EDWARD MARSTON
This one is for Judith. Bon voyage!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
May 1909
Bombay was truly a meeting place of nations. As he stood in the harbour and gazed around, George Porter Dillman saw faces of many differing hues and heard voices in a confusing variety of languages. He had never been in such a cosmopolitan environment before. Bombay was not only the gateway to India, it was a large, populous, vibrant, utterly fascinating city in its own right. Unlike many ports, which were simply modes of access to a country or an island, it was a place where the traveller was encouraged to stay, to explore, and to marvel. During his short time there, Dillman had certainly marvelled at its sights and relished its unique atmosphere.
Situated on a peninsula some eleven miles long, the city occupied a site that formed a natural breakwater, enclosing the bay. Docks and wharves abounded, all of them swarming with people. Apart from its cordial hospitality, Dillman’s abiding memories of Bombay would be its baking heat, its pungent odours, and its deafening noise.
Picking his way through the crowd, it seemed to him that the harbour was the hottest, smelliest, and most earsplitting part of the city. It was also one of the busiest. Not only were the wharves teeming with bodies, the water itself was packed with craft of all sizes and shapes. Steamships and tugboats were very much in a minority, surrounded by a veritable forest of masts as ketches, barges, schooners, trawlers, cutters, yawls, sloops, dhows, and other sailing vessels jostled for position.
Having worked in the family business of designing and building oceangoing yachts, Dillman was delighted to see so much canvas still in use. He paused to enjoy the scene before moving on. In his white linen suit and his straw hat, he was a striking figure, tall, lithe, and elegant, obviously at ease in foreign surroundings and unperturbed by the hectic bustle all around him. The man who fell in beside him was far less relaxed. Mopping his brow with a spotted handkerchief, he was short, florid, and running to fat. Though he was close to Dillman’s age – in his early thirties – he looked much older and walked with a stoop.
‘I do hope it’s cooler onboard the ship,’ he observed.
‘I’m sure that it will be,’ replied Dillman.
‘Ah, you’re an American,’ said the other, hearing the Bostonian accent. ‘I thought you were one of us.’
‘In some senses, I am. My family comes from English stock.’
‘You’ll never persuade me that that’s the same thing as being born and brought up in the Home Counties. America is a different planet. So is India, for that matter. Can’t wait to get back to civilisation.’
‘India’s civilisation is much older than yours,’ noted Dillman.
‘Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with it.’ He offered a sweaty palm. ‘Nevin is the name. Dudley Nevin.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Dillman, shaking his hand. ‘My name is George Dillman.’
‘What brings you to Bombay, Mr Dillman?’
‘Curiosity. I stopped off on the way back from Australia.’
‘You’re leaving just in time,’ said Nevin. ‘When the monsoon season gets under way, India is well nigh unbearable. Not that it’s tolerable at the best of times, mark you. I loathe the country.’
‘Then why come to India in the first place?’
‘I work here.’
‘In Bombay?’
‘No, in Delhi. I had to travel all the way here in one of those giant frying pans they call trains. It was murder, Mr Dillman,’ he complained. ‘There were times when I felt like one of those men in the fiery furnace. What were their names?’
‘Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego.’
‘Those are the chaps.’
‘Yet they survived the ordeal,’ Dillman reminded him. ‘Even when the furnace was heated to seven times its normal temperature, they came out unscathed. Just like you, Mr Nevin.’
‘I don’t feel unscathed.’
‘What do you do in Delhi?’
‘Pray for my contract of employment to come to an end.’
‘Are you in business?’
‘The Civil Service.’
‘Why take the job if you dislike the country?’
‘Because I didn’t know that I would dislike it so much until I got here,’ said Nevin. ‘I was beguiled by Kipling. He made India sound so interesting. I thought that coming here would be a big adventure.’
‘I’m sorry it’s disappointed you. My time here has been delightful.’
‘How long have you stayed?’
‘Only a week.’
‘Try sticking it out for a year,’ moaned Nevin. ‘Then you’d get some idea of how bad it can be. This climate is torture for Europeans.’
Dillman gave a wry smile. ‘I’m an American, remember.’
‘I was forgetting.’
Nevin was a tense, unhappy, irritable man but Dillman sensed that he would improve on acquaintance. He looked forward to meeting the Englishman when the latter was not under such obvious pressure. They had now joined the queue that snaked towards the gangway and Dillman took the opportunity to appraise the vessel on which they were about to sail. Named after one of the islands off Bombay harbour, the Salsette had the reputation of being the most beautiful ship owned by the P&O – the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company. George Dillman could see why.
With her two yellow funnels and two masts in perfect proportion, the Salsette was an arresting sight. She had a long, sleek, white-painted hull that reminded Dillman of a yacht, and the large golden cockerel at her masthead signified that she was the fastest ship in the fleet. Designed for the express mail and passenger shuttle between Bombay and Aden, she was trim and refined, accommodating a hundred first-class passengers and a hundred and twenty in second-class, but having limited cargo space. Dillman had once worked for Cunard, sailing a number of times on each of its acknowledged ‘pretty sisters,’ the Caronia and the Carmania, yet he was forced to admit that the Salsette was an even more attractive example of marine architecture. It was not just her smaller size – her tonnage was less than a third that of the Cunard liners – it was to do with her intrinsic design. Moored in her berth, she had undeniable charm.
Dillman was still admiring her when Nevin spoke to him again.
‘Why are you going to Aden?’ he asked.
‘To pick up a ship to London,’ replied Dillman.
‘Lucky old you!’
‘Aren’t you going home to England, Mr Nevin?’
‘If only I were!’ sighed the other. ‘No, I don’t have enough time. I’m visiting a cousin who has a diplomatic posting in Aden. Anything to get away from India for a while.’
‘If you hate it so much, why do you stay?’
‘Three main reasons. One, I’m contracted to work in Delhi. Two, I left England under something of a cloud so I might not be entirely welcome there. Three – most important of all – my father.’
‘How does he come into it?’
‘Old soldier. Served most of his time in India and loved it. He more or less bullied me into coming here. Said it would make a man of me.’
‘Yet you didn’t join the army.’
‘Heavens, no! Far too dangerous.’
‘Things are fairly stable here now, aren’t they?’
‘Don’t you believe it, Mr Dillman,’ warned Nevin. ‘This country is brimming with resentment against us. Ungrateful lot, if you ask me. Can’t they see what we’ve done for them?’ he asked with a touch of indignation. ‘Granted, we may not be on the verge of another mutiny but there are hotheads everywhere, stirring up trouble. It was only a couple of years ago that someone organised mass picketing of the liquor shops here in Bombay.’
‘Why? To reduce government excise revenue?’
‘Yes. And it gave them the chance to flex their muscles. It’s the same in Punjab, Madras, and elsewhere. Too many extremists wanting to give us a bloody nose.’
‘Nobody likes being ruled by a distant foreign power.’
Nevin laughed. ‘I might have known an American would take their side,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘Because you threw off your colonial shackles, you encourage others to do the same. I think I’ve found you out, sir. You’re a rabble-rouser.’
‘I confess it,’ said Dillman, amused by the notion.
‘But you take my point, don’t you? If there is trouble, I don’t want to be drafted in as part of the army to quell it with force. I don’t have my father’s blood lust.’ He became reflective. ‘Mark you, I wouldn’t have minded the other side to military life.’
‘The other side?’
‘The luxury, Mr Dillman. All that leisure time to play polo or drink as much as you wanted at the club. And you have to do so little for yourself. When my father was only a lieutenant,’ he recalled, ‘he had twelve servants at his beck and call. Imagine that.’
‘I’m not sure that I’d care to,’ said Dillman. ‘It breeds laziness.’
‘It epitomises the superiority of the British nation.’
‘That’s not how I see it, Mr Nevin.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Nevin with a chuckle. ‘You Americans believe all that nonsense about equality. You don’t acknowledge that one people can be superior to another. If you lived in India as long as I have, you’d soon change your tune.’
‘I very much doubt that.’
They were on edge of the gangway now. Dillman put down his suitcase so that he could take his ticket from his pocket. Nevin did likewise. Dabbing at his brow with the handkerchief, he gave his companion a shrewd glance.
‘Travelling alone, I suppose?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ answered Dillman. ‘Quite alone.’
‘In that case, I hope that we’ll see more of each other.’
‘So do I.’
‘I’ll promise to be in a more amenable mood next time.’
‘Being on Indian soil obviously upsets you.’
‘That’s why I’m so anxious to get away from it, Mr Dillman.’
‘You said earlier that you left England under a cloud.’
‘That’s right. Blotted my copybook.’
‘In what way?’
‘That would be telling,’ said Nevin with a sly grin. ‘I think I’d need to know you a lot better before I’d even consider letting you in on the secret.’
Genevieve Masefield had befriended them in the customs shed. It wasn’t merely the sound of English voices that drew her to them, it was the fact that one of the ladies was in a Bath chair. Genevieve was struck by the bravery needed to travel halfway across the world in open defiance of a physical handicap. She was even more impressed when she heard what their itinerary had been. Constance Simcoe rattled off the names.
‘Jaipur, Delhi, Simla, Amritsar, Lahore,’ she said. ‘It was so much cooler up in the hills. We kept on the move yet we feel we’ve only scratched the surface of India.’
‘You’re so courageous,’ said Genevieve.
‘Not really, Miss Masefield. We’re very nosey, that’s all.’
‘You make me feel so provincial.’
‘Didn’t you say you’d just come back from Australia?’
‘Well, yes,’ agreed Genevieve.
‘Then you’re a seasoned traveller.’
‘I only saw Perth, really. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to explore a country in the way that you’ve done.’
‘We did have some assistance,’ explained Tabitha Simcoe, pushing her mother along in the Bath chair while porters carried the luggage in their wake. ‘Uncle Harold lives in Bombay. He was our guide for the first part of the tour.’
‘About time my brother did something useful,’ opined Constance.
‘Mother!’
‘Harold was never the most helpful person. I love him dearly, of course, but he can be very selfish and inconsiderate.’
‘He was a saint,’ argued Tabitha. ‘After all that he did for us, it’s unkind of you to say anything different. Really, Mother! What will Miss Masefield think of us?’
‘I think that you’re an example to us all,’ said Genevieve.
Constance smiled serenely. ‘The best way to see India is from a Bath chair,’ she remarked. ‘You can drink it slowly in as you roll along.’
‘Only if someone is kind enough to push you, Mrs Simcoe.’
‘That’s where Tabby comes in.’
‘I try,’ her daughter said loyally.
The family likeness was not strong. Constance Simcoe was a thin, angular, wasted woman in her late fifties with a haggard face that was cunningly hidden by wisps of hair that had been trained around its periphery. Her voice suggested breeding, her clothing hinted at wealth. Her manner had a kind of imperious jocularity to it. Tabitha, by contrast, was a tall, full-bodied, handsome woman in her twenties with the resigned look of someone who had given up all hope of marriage in order to look after her mother. Like Genevieve, both of them wore wide-brimmed straw hats to ward off the hot sun, though thick clouds were now gathering to block out its rays. When they came out of the customs shed, Constance Simcoe held a small bottle to her nose and inhaled.
‘I need something to take away the stink,’ she said, slipping the bottle back into her purse. ‘It’s the one thing about Indian cities that I find a little repulsive. They do reek somewhat. We sprinkled gallons of lavender water on our clothing, didn’t we, Tabby?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘But even that didn’t always do the trick.’
‘No, Mother.’
‘Attention to hygiene is not what it should be.’
‘This is India,’ said Tabitha. ‘It’s not like Cheltenham.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ grumbled her mother, rolling her eyes in disapproval. ‘In Cheltenham – thank God – you wouldn’t find men relieving themselves against the nearest wall. It’s a most disagreeable habit.’
‘Is that where you live?’ said Genevieve. ‘In Cheltenham?’
‘Yes, Miss Masefield. It’s the centre of our universe. And you?’
‘London.’
‘Are you looking forward to going home?’
‘Very much so. I’m looking forward to the voyage, as well.’
‘So are we. One meets such interesting people.’
Genevieve did not realise that a compliment had just been paid to her. She was too busy looking up at the ship that awaited them at the pier. The Salsette was much smaller than Genevieve had anticipated but her lines and proportions had an instant appeal for her. Silhouetted against a sky that was slowly darkening, the bright colours of the vessel stood out even more. Tabitha noticed the involuntary smile that lit up Genevieve’s face.
‘Have you sailed on the Salsette before?’ she wondered.
‘No,’ replied Genevieve.
‘We did. Such a joy to look at, isn’t she?’
‘But not such a joy to sail in,’ added her mother. ‘The Salsette rolled too much for my liking. I’d prefer a much larger vessel like the Marmora.’
‘I sailed on her to Australia,’ said Genevieve.
‘How did you find the voyage?’
‘I had no complaints whatsoever, Mrs Simcoe.’
‘Nor did we when the Marmora took us to Egypt last year. Ah,’ she went on with an air of satisfaction, as she saw two figures descending on her. ‘I’ve been spotted.’
Clad in smart uniforms, the two stewards had come to help her onto the ship. One of them took over the task of pushing the Bath chair while the other asked the passengers ahead to stand aside and let them through. Whisked along with the others, Genevieve found herself jumping the queue. When they reached the gangplank, the two men lifted the Bath chair and carried it between them, taking care to keep it on an even keel. Tabitha took advantage of her brief moment alone with Genevieve to confide something to her.
‘We’re not really brave,’ she said timidly ‘To be honest, there were times when I was so frightened that I wished we were back in Cheltenham. No, Miss Masefield, you’re the only person who’s shown true bravery.’
Genevieve was surprised. ‘Me?’ she said.
‘You’ve done something that I’d never dare to do.’
‘Have I, Miss Simcoe?’
‘You went on a long voyage on your own,’ said Tabitha wistfully. ‘The very thought of it terrifies me. Look at you. You’re a beautiful young woman yet you had no qualms about sailing all the way to Australia and back. That takes real courage.’
Max Cannadine was a portly Englishman in his early forties with a pleasant face and short dark hair that was bisected by a centre parting. As purser on the Salsette he had a wide range of responsibilities. One of them was to welcome Dillman aboard and he did so with alacrity, pumping the American’s arm and beaming at him.
‘Delighted to have you with us, Mr Dillman,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Mr Cannadine.’
‘Your reputation goes before you.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Excellent. You’re a credit to P&O. And from what I hear, you had a wonderful record of success when you worked for Cunard as well. I can sleep easily in my bunk, knowing that we have such a brilliant detective onboard.’
‘There are two of us,’ Dillman said modestly. ‘Genevieve Masefield deserves just as much praise as I do. We work as a team. Without her, I’d not be nearly so effective.’
‘I’m anxious to meet the lady.’
‘Genevieve will be along in due course.’
They were in the purser’s office, a small but impeccably tidy room with a desk, a few upright chairs, a couple of filing cabinets, and prints of other P&O vessels on the walls. As soon as he had unpacked in his cabin, Dillman had sought out the purser. His first impression was that Cannadine would be friendly and cooperative.
‘I’m only sorry that we can’t offer you something to test your mettle,’ said the purser, waving his visitor to a chair. ‘Very little happens on the Salsette, I’m afraid.’
‘You must have some petty crime.’
‘An occasional pickpocket, maybe. Yes, and the odd cardsharp. Nothing to offer you and your partner a challenge worthy of you. There isn’t really the time for anyone to do any dastardly deeds. On average, it takes us only four days to reach Aden.’
‘Murder can take less than four seconds, Mr Cannadine.’
‘Nothing like that ever occurs on the Salsette.’
‘I hope that it never does.’
‘It’s always been such a lucky ship. At least, I’ve always found it so. The passengers provide the interest, of course, but we’re also a mail shuttle, connecting with the Australian steamers that dock at Aden every other week.’ The purser grinned. ‘You might call us a nautical version of the Pony Express.’
‘A sort of Sea Horse, you mean?’
Cannadine laughed. ‘Fair comment!’
‘Don’t worry about us,’ said Dillman. ‘Genevieve and I will just fade into the background. Having so few passengers will make our job considerably easier. We had well over two thousand on the Lusitania.’
‘How on earth did you keep an eye on that lot?’
‘Nervously.’
The purser laughed again, then he picked up some papers from his desk and handed them to Dillman. ‘Passenger lists,’ he explained. ‘Just to let you know who everyone is and where their cabins are. Nobody famous onboard this time. We’ve carried royalty in the past.’
‘What about drugs?’
‘What about them?’
‘Well, even during my short visit to Bombay, I saw how much opium and bhang were being smoked. Has anyone ever tried to smuggle it out in appreciable quantities?’
‘Not that I know of, Mr Dillman.’
‘It must be a temptation. It would be a lucrative trade.’
‘Lucrative but despicable,’ said Cannadine, seriously. ‘I’d hate to think that the Salsette is helping to line the pockets of any drug smugglers. But then,’ he went on, relaxing, ‘there’s no danger of that on this trip. We have you and Miss Masefield as our guard dogs.’
‘We’ll keep a close eye on everyone, Mr Cannadine.’
‘Good.’ The purser rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m sure that it’s going to be a trouble-free voyage from start to finish. Aren’t you?’ Before Dillman could reply, an answer came from above. After a loud rumble of thunder, there was a sudden flash of lightning that illumined the office for a split second. An electric storm was at hand.
‘Oh dear!’ said Cannadine. ‘I think I spoke too soon.’
CHAPTER TWO
Genevieve Masefield had never seen anything like it. The storm came so quickly and unexpectedly that it took her completely unawares. She was unpacking her trunk when she heard the boom of thunder and saw the flash of lightning at the porthole of her cabin. Within seconds, the heavens opened and rain fell with a speed and violence that shocked her. Scouring the ship, it sent everyone running for cover. It drummed on the hull, pounded on the deck, danced on the lifeboats, and made a series of rapid pinging sounds on the funnels, turning the Salsette into a gigantic musicalinstrument. Genevieve thought that a hose had been turned on the glass in her porthole. Thunder rolled again and there was another flash of lightning, even more vivid than the first, before the rain seemed to increase its velocity.
She was grateful that she was already aboard. Several passengers were still making their way along the pier, caught in the downpour and soaked to the skin, their summer-wear no protection against the ferocity of the storm. Hunched up, and protesting noisily, they scampered towards the gangway through the impromptu pools of water that had already formed on the ground. Heavy rain might bring relief from the oppressive heat but it also spread confusion and drenched its victims. Genevieve tried in vain to carry on hanging up her dresses in the wardrobe. The fury of the storm kept distracting her.
Though it lasted a mere ten minutes, it seemed like an age to Genevieve before the deluge slowly began to ease off. The noise softened, the sky brightened, and her porthole was no longer under attack by gushing water. She began to relax, consoling herself with the thought that at least the torrent had hit them while they were still in Bombay harbour. Had they been caught in open sea, the effect would have been even more dramatic. In the course of her travels, Genevieve had endured many squalls in midocean but she had always been forewarned about those. None had unsettled her as much as this stormy farewell to India.
When the rain finally stopped, she was able to unpack the last few items. The cabin was small but well-appointed and it would offer her both comfort and privacy on the short voyage to Aden. The only problem was that she would be sleeping in it alone. There was a tapping on the door that Genevieve recognised as the signal from her partner. She opened the door to admit George Dillman. Embracing her warmly, he kissed her on the lips.
‘Settling in?’ he asked.
‘I was until that thunderstorm broke out.’
‘Yes, it was rather spectacular, wasn’t it?’
‘I was quite scared, George.’
‘Of a little drop of rain? No need to be.’
‘It’s easy to say that,’ she said, ‘but it took me by surprise.’
‘We’ve been building up to it for days, Genevieve. If we stayed on for the monsoon season, you’d see much more rain than that.’
‘Then I’m glad we’re leaving.’
‘Are you?’ he said with mock disappointment. ‘I hoped that you’d have fond memories of Bombay. I certainly do.’
‘And so do I,’ she promised, slipping her arms around his neck to kiss him. ‘It was blissful, George. You know that.’
‘Unforgettable.’
The visit to Bombay had been a rare break in their duties. They had seized the opportunity of a week there in order to sample some of the delights of India and to enjoy a delayed honeymoon. Having worked together closely for some time, they had been married by the captain aboard the Marmora on a trip to Australia. Assignments on other P&O vessels had forced them to postpone the celebrations until now, but the long wait had been very worthwhile.
‘I do wish we could share a cabin,’ she said.
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘But we’re husband and wife now.’
‘We know that, darling,’ he told her, ‘but it’s important that nobody else does. It would limit us a great deal. There are places we can go as individuals that we’d never reach as a couple.’
‘It seems so strange – pretending to be single again.’
‘Strange but necessary. Besides, you won’t have to keep up the pretence indefinitely. Who knows? You may hear a familiar knock on your door one of these nights.’
‘It will probably be the steward bringing me a cup of cocoa.’
‘A steward who answers to the name of George Porter Dillman.’
She laughed. ‘Does that mean I have to tip you?’
‘We’ll see.’ He glanced around her cabin and gave a nod of approval. ‘Almost identical to mine,’ he said. ‘I’m at the far end of the corridor, by the way. Number forty-two.’
‘I prefer you in here.’
‘I prefer it as well, but we’ll have to ration ourselves. To all intents and purposes, we’re travelling independently. Even the purser doesn’t realise that we’re married.’
‘Have you met him yet?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dillman. ‘His name is Max Cannadine. I took to him at once. He’s one of those nice, helpful, efficient characters that P&O always manages to find. Make yourself known to him when you have a moment.’
‘I will, George. Did you meet anyone else?’
‘Only a fellow called Dudley Nevin. He’s a disgruntled civil servant who wishes he’d never come anywhere near India. He’s sneaking off to Aden to visit a cousin.’
‘How can anyone be disgruntled with India?’ she asked with a shrug. ‘It’s such a beautiful country.’
‘Not if you’re sitting behind a desk all day long.’
‘But it has a sense of mystery. You can almost feel it.’
‘I fancy that Mr Nevin has an air of mystery about him as well,’ he decided. ‘A man with hidden depths. I intend to plumb some of them. We’ve arranged to have dinner together.’
‘I’ve agreed to dine with the Simcoes.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Constance and Tabitha Simcoe,’ she said. ‘They’re a mother and daughter who’ve been touring northern India. I take my hat off to them.’
‘Why?’
‘Mrs Simcoe is disabled. She has to go everywhere in a Bath chair. Think of the sorts of problems that that must create. Yet they didn’t let it deter them at all.’
‘What are they like?’
‘Very pleasant and very English. They come from Cheltenham.’
‘I dare say I’ll bump into them in due course.’
‘You’ll have no difficulty picking them out, George.’
‘Not if one of them is in a Bath chair. Besides,’ he went on, taking something from his inside pocket, ‘they’ll be part of a small but solid English contingent we have aboard.’ He handed her some papers. ‘This is the passenger list that the purser gave me. We have almost every nation under the sun on the Salsette.’
‘Even some Americans?’ she teased.
‘Yes, there’s enough of us to make our presence felt. But we also have French, Italians, Dutch, Germans, Chinese, a lone Irishman, Scandinavians, and Portuguese – in addition to a fair number of Indians and Arabs, that is.’
‘You’ve obviously done your homework.’
‘I like to know who my fellow passengers are, Genevieve.’
‘Anyone who needs careful watching?’
‘The lady in cabin number eleven.’
‘But that’s my cabin,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘Then I’ll have to watch you very carefully, won’t I?’ Dillman enfolded her lovingly in his arms once again.
Paulo Morelli made sure that nobody was looking before he took a comb from his pocket. Standing in front of the gilt-framed mirror, he slicked his hair back neatly then showed his teeth in a dazzling smile. A steward in first class, Morelli was a slim, swarthy, handsome young man of middle height who took immense pride in his appearance. He was using the comb on his moustache when the purser came down the corridor. Max Cannadine smiled tolerantly.
‘Preening yourself yet again, Paulo?’ he taunted.
‘I like to look nice for my passengers,’ said the other, putting the comb away. ‘It is – how do you say it – an article of faith with me.’
‘The only thing you’re interested in is impressing the ladies.’
‘Why not, Mr Cannadine? Every man needs a hobby.’
‘You’re not paid to enjoy your hobby.’
‘All that I do is to look at them.’
‘Keep yourself pure in thought, word, and deed.’
Morelli flashed a grin. ‘I’m an Italian – not a monk.’
‘You’re a steward aboard the Salsette,’ warned the purser, ‘and that’s all that matters. We want no more hanky-panky, Paulo.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know very well what I mean, so don’t look so innocent. More than one female passenger has had cause to complain about you in the past. The kindest thing said was that you were over-attentive.’
‘I try to be friendly, that is all.’
‘There are barriers,’ stressed Cannadine. ‘Strict barriers between passengers and crew members. Overstep those barriers and you’ll be in hot water. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Remember your wife back in Genoa.’
‘I do, sir. All the time.’
‘Then don’t be tempted again.’
‘It was not my fault on the voyage from Aden,’ protested the steward. ‘That Spanish lady – it was she who chased me. She only complained because I turned her down. I have to, Mr Cannadine. I’m a married man.’ He put a hand to his heart. ‘And I know my duty.’
‘See that you do it.’
The purser was very fond of Paulo Morelli. With all his faults, the Italian was a conscientious steward who worked hard and sent most of his wages dutifully home to his wife. What Cannadine liked about him was his resolute cheerfulness. Morelli skipped happily through life. No matter how bad a situation, or how onerous his tasks, he always managed to retain his sense of fun. It was a tonic to have him aboard.
‘Where were you when the storm broke out?’ asked Cannadine.
Morelli gave an impish grin. ‘Hiding under my bunk.’
‘You should be used to that kind of thing by now.’
‘The others, they say it is a bad omen.’
‘That’s just foolish superstition.’
‘We do not want bad weather on the voyage.’
‘We’ll take what we can get, Paulo. When we set sail from Bombay, we’re in God’s hands. All things considered, He looks after us pretty well.’
‘That’s why I pray before we set sail.’
‘And what do you pray for?’
‘Lots of pretty ladies to look after.’
The purser smiled. ‘Control yourself, man.’
‘I’m only human, sir.’
‘Far too human. However,’ said Cannadine, ‘talking of looking after someone, did the chief steward have a word with you?’
‘What about?’
‘A passenger called Mrs Simcoe.’
‘Ah, yes. The lady in the chair.’
‘She may need help from time to time, especially when she wants to go out on deck. I suggested that you’d be the ideal person to keep an eye on her. Don’t let me down, Paulo.’
‘I’d never do that, Mr Cannadine.’
‘Introduce yourself to Mrs Simcoe and her daughter.’
‘Oh, I will,’ said Morelli, ‘and to the lady in number eleven.’
‘Number eleven?’
‘I saw her come aboard. She is the most beautiful signorina on the whole ship even though she is English. It is a pity that she does not have a chair with wheels – or I would push her around the deck all day long.’
‘Who on earth are you talking about, man?’
‘Miss Masefield,’ said the other. ‘Miss Genevieve Masefield.’
By the time that the Salsette was ready to set sail, the burning sun had obliterated most of the vestiges of the storm. The deck was bone-dry, the funnels no longer dribbled with moisture and the puddles that had formed in the tarpaulins covering the lifeboats were quickly evaporating. It was almost as if the downpour had never happened. Reassured by the clear sky, most passengers ventured out to take a last look at Bombay as they departed. Genevieve Masefield was among them. No sooner did she appear on the main deck than she saw Tabitha Simcoe beckoning her across to the rail. ‘I was hoping to see you here, Miss Masefield,’ said Tabitha.
‘I wouldn’t have missed it. I always enjoy this moment.’
‘So do I. It’s such an emotional experience. There’s the nostalgia of leaving somewhere you’ve loved and the excitement of sailing across an ocean in a foreign clime.’
‘Did your mother not wish to join you?’
‘Oh, she did, but she felt too weary. I left her in the cabin to have a nap. Mother tires easily,’ she confided. ‘In public, of course, she always manages to keep up appearances but she’s not a strong woman.’
‘All the more reason to admire her for undertaking such a trip. Yes,’ added Genevieve, ‘and all the more reason to praise you as well.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re the one who shoulders the responsibility, Miss Simcoe. It must be very hard on you at times.’
‘Not at all,’ said Tabitha, nobly. ‘She’s my mother.’
Genevieve was pleased to meet her alone. Without Mrs Simcoe, her daughter was a different woman. Tabitha was more animated, more confident, more curious about what was going on around her. In the most ladylike way, she was even taking note of some of the young men on deck. The person who interested her most, however, was Genevieve.
‘I’m so glad that we met you, Miss Masefield,’ she said, squeezing Genevieve’s hand. ‘I just know that we’re going to be friends.’
‘In that case, you can stop being so formal with me. Foreign travel ought to release us from social conventions. Please call me Genevieve.’
‘Thank you. I will. Oh, and you must call me Tabby.’
‘Not Tabitha?’
‘I’m Tabby to people who are close to me. But you’re wrong about social conventions disappearing when we’re abroad,’ she went on. ‘Wait until you meet Major and Mrs Kinnersley. They’re sticklers for decorum. To be honest, they’re the only people we’ve encountered that we found it impossible to like.’
‘Why was that, Tabby?’
‘They were ghastly.’
‘Unable to shake off their reserve, you mean?’
‘No, Genevieve. They were just so thoroughly unpleasant. Mrs Kinnersley is the worst. She’s the most dreadful snob. And she treats that poor girl abominably.’
‘Their daughter?’
‘Hardly,’ said Tabitha. ‘I’d be amazed if Mrs Kinnersley had any children – let alone any maternal instincts. No, this is a young Indian servant who travels with them. I feel sorry for the girl. I’d hate to be at the mercy of a woman like that.’
‘Colonial life does give people airs and graces.’
‘Mrs Kinnersley was born with them.’ Hearing the sharpness in her voice, Tabitha became apologetic. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be harsh on her after so short an acquaintance. Please forgive me for being a trifle outspoken. Perhaps we just caught them on a bad day.’
‘What was your mother’s opinion?’
‘Exactly the same as mine, Genevieve. Except that Mother expressed it rather more trenchantly.’
Genevieve was amused. ‘I can imagine.’
The ship’s engines had been throbbing away while they spoke and they now took on a more powerful beat. After a loud blast on her hooter, the Salsette pulled gently away from the pier, cheered from below by the army of relatives, friends, and those who worked at the harbour. Even though she knew nobody whatsoever in the crowd, Genevieve waved as enthusiastically as anyone. Pleased to be going at last, her happiness was tempered with sadness that they were leaving a city where she and her husband had been able to be themselves for a change. Now that they were at work once more, they had to wear their masks.
‘What will you remember most about India?’ asked Tabitha.
‘The kindness of the people.’
‘Yes, Genevieve, it made me feel so guilty.’
‘About what?’
‘The way we’ve treated them. India is supposed to be the jewel in the crown of the British Empire, and we’ve all benefited from that. But where are the benefits for the Indian people themselves? Most of them live in abject poverty,’ said Tabitha, grimacing. ‘The slums of Bombay are beyond belief. They deserve better.’
‘I agree with you, Tabby.’
‘And they’re entitled to have it.’
Once again, Tabitha heard a passion in her voice that she regretted and she apologised at once. Genevieve waved away her protest.
‘You were right in what you said. We should feel guilty.’
‘I spoke out of turn.’
‘Only to me,’ said Genevieve, ‘and that’s what friends are for.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Tabitha, hugging her impulsively. ‘Oh, Genevieve, I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have someone with whom I can be honest. This voyage is going to be a delight for me.’
Genevieve felt mildly alarmed. Much as she liked Tabitha, she did not want to be monopolised by her for the next four days or she would be unable to do her job properly. It was important to widen her social circle, to get to know as many people as she could. Tabitha, she feared, wanted a more exclusive relationship with her. The other woman confirmed it by her next remark. Holding Genevieve by the shoulders, she gazed at her with a mixture of admiration and yearning.
‘You’re the person I’ve always wanted to be,’ she confessed.
When the ship set sail, George Dillman was part of the crowd on the promenade deck, enjoying the occasion but taking a close look at the other passengers while he was doing so. Dudley Nevin was there, talking to an elderly woman with a parasol, and so was a Norwegian couple with whom he had exchanged a few words in the customs shed. Other faces imprinted themselves on his memory. Dillman wondered where the trouble would arise. Even when there were little over two hundred passengers aboard, the law of averages would come into play. Someone would probably be out to make money by stealing it, cheating at cards or extracting it from their victims by means of a confidence trick. Dillman had to remain alert.
As the cheers of the crowd began to die away, the short, red-faced, round-shouldered man beside him turned to look up at Dillman. His eyes twitched as he spoke.
‘That was quite a send-off, wasn’t it?’ he commented.
‘Yes,’ said Dillman, realising that he was talking to a fellow American. ‘Though I’m not entirely sure if they were sorry to see us go or glad to get rid of us.’ He offered his hand. ‘George Dillman.’
‘Boston, Massachusetts,’ guessed the other, shaking his hand warmly. ‘Judging by your accent, that is. My name is Wilbur Rollins. New York City and proud of it.’
‘You’ve every right to be. It’s a fine place.’
‘You’re a long way from Boston, my friend.’
‘I always wanted to see the world before I settled down.’
‘I’m trying to do it the other way around,’ admitted Rollins. ‘I made all the big decisions first – a wife, a family, a career – then had the urge to travel when I turned fifty.’
‘On your own?’
The other man sighed. ‘My wife died two years ago, I’m afraid, and the children have families of their own now. Time to spread my wings.’
‘I hope it’s been a memorable experience.’
‘Quite magical, Mr Dillman. And all grist to my mill.’
‘Your mill?’
‘I’m a writer,’ explained Rollins. ‘One day, everything I’ve seen and done will end up between the pages of a book. I’ve made copious notes at every stage of my journey.’
Rollins was an engaging companion, intelligent, well-informed, and full of amusing anecdotes. Once Dillman got used to the nervous twitch around the man’s eyes, he was drawn to him. In turn, the New Yorker obviously felt as if he had made a real friend. While many of the passengers dispersed to their cabins, the two men remained talking on deck. They were over a mile out of the harbour when something caught their attention. Rollins was astonished.
‘Look at that!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you see what I see?’
‘Very well,’ said Dillman.
‘Why on earth are they doing that there?’
Dillman was as baffled as he was. What they were staring at was a large cargo ship that was anchored well away from the harbour while the coal in its holds was being discharged into lighters. In addition to the crew, hundreds of people were visible on the deck, coolies, women, and children. Coal was being unloaded by the most primitive and laborious method. Using shovels shaped like Dutch hoes, the coolies were filling small flat baskets then handing them along a human chain to be emptied down chutes into the lighters.
‘How much coal would they have aboard?’ wondered Rollins.
‘Five thousand tonnes at least, I’d say.’
‘It will take them an eternity to unload all that.’
‘Yes,’ said Dillman. ‘They’re not even using the steam winches and derricks. Everything’s being done manually by a shore gang, just as in the old days.’
‘But why? That’s what I want to know.’
‘It saves docking charges, for a start. My guess is that the agent in charge of the stevedoring arrangements has worked out some kind of deal that gives him and the ship’s owners a tidy profit. The only people who won’t come out of this well are the coolies.’
‘And their families,’ said Rollins, taking a pad and pencil from his pocket. ‘Why bring all those women? They’re not just wives. I can see a few grandmothers as well.’ He began to write something in his notepad. ‘It’s almost as if they live on the ship.’
‘That’s effectively what they will do until the holds are emptied.’
‘And then?’
‘Well,’ said Dillman, ‘presumably they’ll want to take fresh cargo onboard. Bagged rice and baled cotton, most likely. I suspect that they’ll move to the dock to pick that up. The crew will want to come ashore to see the sights of Bombay.’
‘This is one of the most extraordinary sights I’ve seen here,’ said Rollins, scribbling rapidly, ‘and it will certainly be mentioned in the book I’m working on at the moment.’
‘Why – what’s it called?’
‘Women at Sea.’
Popular with the passengers, Paulo Morelli only aroused envy among his colleagues. His good looks and his Latin charm won him compliments from the ladies and – they suspected – even more personal marks of favour at times. Stewards were forbidden to fraternise with the passengers and it was a rule that was rigidly enforced, yet Morelli somehow managed to get around it – or, at least, he gave the impression of doing so. Part of his success was due to the zest he brought to his job, performing even the most boring and repetitious tasks with smiling eagerness. A first meeting with new passengers, he believed, was crucial. If a relationship got off to a good start, he had something to build on.
Accordingly, he worked his way along the cabins that had been assigned to him for the voyage, tapping on each door, introducing himself to the occupants and asking if there was anything they required. When he came to the cabin belonging to Constance and Tabitha Simcoe, he recalled what the purser had told him. He was to take special care of the older woman. Morelli had no qualms about doing that. He had seen her come aboard in her Bath chair and knew that she was travelling with an attractive daughter. In devoting himself to the mother, he told himself, he could ingratiate himself with the younger woman.
