It's Murder, On a Galapagos Cruise: An Amateur Female Sleuth Historical Cozy Mystery (Miss Riddell C by P.C. James (the best ebook reader for android TXT) 📗

weren’t nice people, Freddie,” Pauline said patiently, though she was growing exasperated at her sister’s constant Pollyanna view of people.

“But still,” Freda said, “he’s not the sort. Just look at him. He’d be no match for Jose and he’d avoid him not fight him.”

“What if he couldn’t avoid him? What if Jose backed him into a corner? What if Jose got in his face and Pedro pushed him away, only to see Jose topple over the rail to his death? What would a nice boy who avoids trouble do then?”

“They would get help,” Freda said.

“Some would, others, once they were sure they hadn’t been seen, would avoid trouble by getting themselves well away and saying nothing.”

“Well, I don’t believe Pedro would be one of those,” Freda said.

Fortunately for Pauline’s patience, the group had stopped to listen to the guide and they were now caught up to them. Further discussion of detection would have to wait.

The hike took them through the still visible foundations of old buildings and roads to the ‘Post Office’, which was a barrel where letters had been deposited by sailors for other sailors to carry home and post. This service had begun in the 1790s, the guide told them, and still continues today, though the cards left now are written by visitors and taken home to post by other visitors.

The group happily spent the next 30 minutes sifting through the many cards in the barrel, hoping to find one to carry home and post for a fellow countryman or woman. Freda found two that were addressed to people in England and took them both.

Pauline was relieved to find all the Canadian ones gone by the time she was handed the bundles of cards remaining to be posted. Posting cards for people she didn’t know, to people she didn’t know, on top of the hours spent looking at empty nesting sites or indistinguishable birds wasn’t as enthralling as she’d hoped it might be. In her mind, Darwin’s famous finches all looked like small brown or black birds that only a naturalist or birdwatcher could tell apart – and she was neither. Some days it was relief to return to the ship and the next meal. She could only hope Freda, whose ‘treat’ this was, was finding it all she hoped for.

“I think everyone is taking a nap after this morning’s hike,” Freda said, back on the ship and looking around the almost empty lounge and coffee shop.

“One of the pleasures of having older people as fellow passengers is the quiet times where you get the nicest parts of the ship to yourself.”

“It also means we can talk without being overheard,” Freda said, checking to see the wait staff were well out of hearing.

“We can do that in our cabins,” Pauline reminded her.

“It’s not as nice as enjoying an afternoon tea and treat in this beautiful little teashop.”

“True. Now, what did you learn about Rod from Betty. You had a good long chat when we were out there.”

“Not a lot. She’s sure Rod didn’t hurt Jose but doesn’t know where he was at the time. I think Rod’s constant sulking is beginning to get her down though. He was supposed to be on today’s excursion and then at the last minute refused to go.”

“That’s good news. If she gets angry enough she may tell us something revealing, instead of the loyal wife routine she’s been keeping up.”

“That’s an awful thing to say, Polly.”

“True but I’m more concerned with catching a murderer than being nice.”

“What were you thinking of while you sent me off to grill Betty?”

“I was thinking about the cut under Jose’s chin. I’d thought the cut was caused by a knife,” Pauline said, “but now I see alternatives everywhere. I saw it first with a ring like the one Betty was wearing last night at dinner. It had sharply cut stones. I thought a necklace such as that one over there,” she pointed to a woman just entering at the farther side of the lounge whose necklace had a large cross with sharply pointed ends, “or even something as mundane as the metal spring at the top of a clipboard.”

“A clipboard?” Freda said. “Who has a clipboard?” She looked about the room.

Pauline smiled. “No one here,” she said, “but didn’t you see that steward this morning, checking off items as he inspected the pool deck?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“If you hope to become a great mystery-solver, you’ll need to take notice.”

“I didn’t think we were worrying about that cut now,” Freda said.

“Anything strange has to be part of the solution, even if we can’t yet see how.”

“You wouldn’t threaten someone with a clipboard though, would you?” Freda said.

“But if someone closed in on you quickly, and you had a clipboard in your hands at the time, you may thrust it up toward their head to try and ward them off. The metal clip could easily lodge under your assailant’s chin.”

“I suppose,” Freda said, slowly, “but I don’t see how it helps.”

“It suggests to me that we’ve been focused on Jose and his past background when it really could be a very new quarrel with one of the crew who does regular checks of the equipment. Maria’s information this morning seems very important taken in that light.”

“This man wouldn’t go to meet Jose with a clipboard though, Polly,” Freda said.

“He could have met Jose earlier, had the discussion with others in attendance, and then Jose took an opportunity when the man was on his own, making checks on the ship with a clipboard, to confront him.”

“All you’re saying, Polly, is you have no idea who, or how, or with what, Jose was killed and that being so, it is just as likely to be an accident – as Detective Somerville says.”

“Freddie, dear, we’re still in the gathering evidence stage of the investigation. It’s too soon to throw up our hands and give in.”

Freda shook her head in dismay. “I’m going to have a nap before this afternoon’s excursion,”