matters. Who was the young man who had burst into my cabin so abruptly? I had not seen him on board previously, either on deck or in the saloon. Was he one of the ship's company or was he a passenger? Who had stabbed him? Why had they stabbed him? And why, in the name of goodness, should Cabin No. 17 figure so prominently? It was all a mystery, but there was no doubt that some very peculiar occurrences were taking place on the Kilmorden Castle .
I counted off on my fingers the people on whom it behoved me to keep a watch.
Setting aside my visitor of the night before, but promising myself that I would discover him on board before another day had passed, I selected the following persons as worthy of my notice:
(1) Sir Eustace Pedler. He was the owner of the Mill House, and his
presence on the Kilmorden Castle seemed something of a coincidence.
(2) Mr. Pagett, the sinister-looking secretary, whose eagerness to obtain
Cabin 17 had been so very marked. N.B. — Find out whether he had
accompanied Sir Eustace to Cannes .
(3) The Rev. Edward Chichester. All I had against him was his obstinacy
over Cabin 17, and that might be entirely due to his own peculiar
temperament. Obstinacy can be an amazing thing.
But a little conversation with Mr. Chichester would not come amiss, I decided. Hastily tying a handkerchief round my hair, I went up on deck again, full of purpose. I was in luck. My quarry was leaning against the rail, drinking beef-tea. I went up to him.
'I hope you've forgiven me over Cabin 17,' I said, with my best smile.
'I consider it unchristian to bear a grudge,' said Mr. Chichester coldly. 'But the purser had distinctly promised me that cabin.'
'Pursers are such busy men, aren't they?' I said vaguely. 'I suppose they're bound to forget sometimes.'
Mr. Chichester did not reply.
'Is this your first visit to Africa ?' I inquired conversationally.
'To South Africa , yes. But I have worked for the last two years among the cannibal tribes in the interior of East Africa .'
'How thrilling! Have you had many narrow escapes?'
'Escapes?'
'Of being eaten, I mean?'
'You should not treat sacred subjects with levity. Miss Beddingfield.'
'I didn't know that cannibalism was a sacred subject,' I retorted, stung.
As the words left my lips, another idea struck me. If Mr. Chichester had indeed spent the last two years in the interior of Africa , how was it that he was not more sunburnt? His skin was as pink and white as a baby's. Surely there was something fishy there? Yet his manner and voice were so absolutely it. Too much so, perhaps. Was he — or was he not — just a little like a stage clergyman?
I cast my mind back to the curates I had known at Little Hampsley. Some of them I had liked, some of them I had not, but certainly none of them had been quite like Mr. Chichester. They had been human — he was a glorified type.
I was debating all this when Sir Eustace Pedler passed down the deck. Just as he was abreast of Mr. Chichester, he stooped and picked up a piece of paper which he handed to him, remarking, 'You've dropped something.'
He passed on without stopping, and so probably did not notice Mr. Chichester's agitation. I did. Whatever it was he had dropped, its recovery agitated him considerably. He turned a sickly green, and crumpled up the sheet of paper into a ball. My suspicions were accentuated a hundredfold.
He caught my eye, and hurried into explanations.
'A — a — fragment of a sermon I was composing,' he said with a sickly smile.
'Indeed?' I rejoined politely.
A fragment of a sermon, indeed! No, Mr. Chichester — too weak for words!
He soon left me with a muttered excuse. I wished, oh, how I wished, that I had been the one to pick up that paper and not Sir Eustace Pedler! One thing was clear, Mr. Chichester could not be exempted from my list of suspects. I was inclined to put him top of the three.
After lunch, when I came up to the lounge for coffee, I noticed Sir Eustace and Pagett sitting with Mrs. Blair and Colonel Race. Mrs. Blair welcomed me with a smile, so I went over and joined them. They were talking about Italy .
'But it is misleading,' Mrs. Blair insisted. 'Aqua calda certainly ought to be cold water — not hot.'
'You're not a Latin scholar,' said Sir Eustace, smiling.
'Men are so superior about their Latin,' said Mrs. Blair. 'But all the same I notice that when you ask them to translate inscriptions in old churches they never can do it! They hem and haw, and get out of it somehow.'
'Quite right,' said Colonel Race. 'I always do.'
'But I love the Italians,' continued Mrs. Blair. 'They're so obliging –though even that has its embarrassing side. You ask them the way somewhere, and instead of saying 'first to the right, second to the left' or something that one could follow, they pour out a flood of well-meaning directions, and when you look bewildered they take you kindly by the arm and walk all the way there with you.'
'Is that your experience in Florence , Pagett?' asked Sir Eustace, turning with a smile to his secretary.
For some reason the question seemed to disconcert Mr. Pagett. He stammered and flushed.
'Oh, quite so, yes — er quite so.'
Then with a murmured excuse, he rose and left the table.
'I am beginning to suspect Guy Pagett of having committed some dark deed in Florence ,' remarked Sir Eustace, gazing after his secretary's retreating figure. 'Whenever Florence or Italy is mentioned, he changes the subject, or bolts precipitately.'
'Perhaps he murdered someone there,' said Mrs. Blair hopefully. 'He looks –1 hope I'm not hurting your feelings, Sir Eustace — but he does look as though he might murder someone.'
'Yes, pure Cinquecento! It amuses me sometimes — especially when one knows as well as I do how essentially law-abiding and respectable the poor fellow really is.'
'He's been with you some time, hasn't he, Sir Eustace?' asked Colonel Race.
'Six years,' said Sir Eustace, with a deep sigh.
'He must be quite invaluable to you,' said Mrs. Blair.
'Oh, invaluable! Yes, quite invaluable.' The poor man sounded even more depressed, as though the invaluableness of Mr. Pagett was a secret grief to him. Then he added more briskly: 'But his face should really inspire you with confidence, my dear lady. No self-respecting murderer would ever consent to look like one. Crippen, now, I believe, was one of the pleasantest fellows imaginable.'
'He was caught on a liner, wasn't he?' murmured Mrs. Blair.
There was a slight rattle behind us. I turned quickly. Mr. Chichester had dropped his coffee-cup.
Our party soon broke up, Mrs. Blair went below to sleep and I went out on deck. Colonel Race followed me.
'You're very elusive. Miss Beddingfield. I looked for you everywhere last night at the dance.'
'I went to bed early,' I explained.
'Are you going to run away tonight too? Or are you going to dance with me?'
'I shall be very pleased to dance with you,' I murmured shyly. 'But Mrs. Blair –'
'Our friend, Mrs. Blair, doesn't care for dancing.'
'And you do?'
'I care for dancing with you.'
'Oh!' I said nervously.
I was a little afraid of Colonel Race.
Nevertheless I was enjoying myself. This was better than discussing fossilized skulls with stuffy old professors! Colonel Race was really just my ideal of a stern silent Rhodesian. Possibly I might marry him! I hadn't been asked, it is true, but, as the Boy Scouts say, Be Prepared! And all women, without in the least meaning it, consider every man they meet as a possible husband for themselves or for their best friend.
