The Widow's Cruise

by Nicholas Blake

  “I have no intention of starting a row with Miss Ambrose, certainly not in front of Mel—her sister,” said Peter with the stiff pompousness of his age. “I merely want to ask her a simple question: —did you or didn’t you tamper with this equipment?”

  “And if she says no?”

  “Well, I—I—”

  “Exactly. You can’t do anything more about it, my dear chap.”

  “But it’s absolutely outrageous,” spluttered the boy, in the exact tone he would be using thirty years later in his Club to inveigh against the enormities of the Budget. “The woman must be off her head.”

  “Could you make this hole with the point of a pair of nail-scissors?”

  “I should think so. If you persevered. The rubber’s quite thick. Why?”

  “In that case, it’s possible that Miss Ambrose did do it.”

  “Well then!”

  Nigel gazed noncommittally at the smouldering eyes in the white face. A lock of wet hair flopped over the boy’s brow. “You don’t seem to ask yourself the obvious question.”

  “The obvious question?”

  “Yes. Why should she do it?”

  Peter Trubody avoided his eye. “Because she’s mad, of course.”

  “Not to get in her blow first, so to speak?”

  “What on earth?——”

  “Well, you threatened her. You told her you were ‘going to take steps’ and ‘other people could be vindictive too’.”

  “Look here,” the youth blustered. “Who the devil are you? Do you spend your time listening in to private conversations?”

  “Oh, come off it! I’ve no tolerance for righteous—or unrighteous—indignation. You made nasty threats to a sick woman—no, never mind what she’s done, or you believe she’s done, in the past. If you must carry on a blood feud, don’t start moaning when your opponent takes a poke at you.”

  “I wasn’t moaning, blast you. I absolutely fail to see——”

  “There’s a great deal you absolutely fail to see, old son: for example, that Ianthe Ambrose is not the kind of woman who can be bulldozed into giving you what you want to get from her.”

  “I suppose I ought to appeal to her better nature?” the youth sneered. “She hasn’t got one. Ask Faith. If you knew as much——”

  “I know that you’re playing with dynamite,” said Nigel gravely.

  “An absolutely foul—a great wrong was done to my sister. I’m going to see that it’s righted.”

  Oh lord! thought Nigel, he’s just like one of those windy politicians proclaiming “We shall not sheathe the sword until . . .”

  “You’re sure you’re not confusing justice with revenge?” he quietly asked.

  For a moment Peter Trubody looked indecisive: then, his face set and stubborn again, he walked off without another word.

  Annihilation

  * * *

  A NUMBER OF passengers were up on the sun-deck below the bridge when, at nine o’clock next morning, the Menelaos steamed in towards Kalymnos. This island, some guide-books claim, is the most beautiful of the Dodecanese. The harbour lies in a broad, deep bay, above which tiers of houses climb the hillsides. Clare Massinger’s eyes were fastened upon the part of the town which rose up over the port bow. The distance, the sunlight and the steepness of the hill produced a foreshortening effect—a lack of perspective which made the whole thing less like a town than the picture of a town: a picture by Ghika. The houses lay on the background in cubes of brilliant colour, white, sky-blue, Reckitt’s blue, and the purity of these blues and whites gave the scene a primitive innocence which Clare found enchanting.

  “‘Where every prospect pleaseth and only man is vile’,” announced the fat voice of Ivor Bentinck-Jones at her side.

  “Oh, good morning,” said Clare. “Yes, it’s very strange and suitable. But do you think man is vile, or viler here than anywhere else?”

  “Just a manner of speaking, dear lady.”

  Clare had no tolerance for the “dear lady” stuff.

  “I wish poets would think before they speak,” she said, a little irritably. Then, seeing Ivor’s crestfallen expression, she relented. “Do you suppose it’s town-planning? I can’t imagine the Greeks allowing themselves to be town-planned.”

  “I don’t quite——”

  “Those houses. All painted white or blue.”

  “Oh, that was started during the Italian occupation. They painted the town in the Greek colours as a protest, and they’ve kept it so ever since.”

  “Good for them. If they’d been Communists, they’d have painted the town red, I suppose.”

  Ivor gave a sycophantic chuckle. “Are you going to grace the ball to-night?” he presently asked.

  “I expect I shall come to the dance.”

  “Then perhaps I may have the honour of——”

  “Ah, that depends on Mr Strangeways,” said Clare, in a gush of mad irresponsibility. “He’s appallingly jealous, you know.”

  Mr Bentinck-Jones’s face took on an attentive, inward look.

  “Oh yes,” Clare babbled on, “a man made a pass at me once during a dance, and Nigel didn’t like it, and the man had to be taken to hospital—twelve stitches in his face and two broken ribs. Of course, it was hushed up: the man happened to be connected with Royalty.”

  “With Royalty? Indeed?” Ivor had been regarding Clare suspiciously during this rigmarole. He soon moved away—presumably to swallow and digest her story, if he could.

  Clare noticed Melissa Blaydon and Nikki leaning over the rail together: Ianthe Ambrose was in a deck-chair not far off. Nikki appeared to be pointing out some spot on the coastline away to the left of the harbour: his finger moved as if tracing a route to it from the town. What caught Clare’s idle attention was a certain restraint in Nikki’s gestures, an air of secrecy in the way he glanced round from time to time as if to make sure he was not overheard. But, if the pair were planning an assignation, they would hardly do it with Ianthe in earshot.

  Yet to-day might well be their first opportunity. There were no important cultural objectives on Kalymnos: so, until the lecture to-night, and the dance that was scheduled to follow it, Nikki would have few official duties.

  The Menelaos dropped anchor. Her steam-whistle bellowed and a lazy echo came back from the hills. Ianthe Ambrose jerked convulsively at the noise, then buried her ears in her hands. A few minutes later, craft put out from the harbour to take off the passengers.

  Nigel and Mrs Hale joined Clare on the sun-deck, watching the primitive-looking craft approach. Nikki came up and greeted them.

  “What do we do here?” asked Mrs Hale.

  “You must buy a sponge, madam,” Nikki replied. “I will personally select one for you. There’s no need to pay more than——”

  “But I can’t spend all day buying a sponge.”

  “The island of Kalymnos makes its chief industry of sponge-fishing,” continued the cruise-manager. “No less than three thousand of its male inhabitants pursue the avocation. They are absent all the summer diving for sponges on the coast of North Africa. Then,”—a dazzling smile lit up his face—“after a few years, they kick the bucket. Lung disease. You know? Very sad.”

  “Well, when I have bought my sponge?”

  “There is transportation waiting to take you to the bathing beaches. Mighty fine bathing here. Or you can explore the island on foot. The inhabitants are friendly. You know? They like to see tourists.” Nikki beamed again, and his American accent became more pronounced. “Yeah, in a dead-alive hole like this they sure do appreciate having visitors come along.”

  “Good for trade, eh?” said Nigel.

  “Yup. And human interest. Oh boy!” Nikki replied with a rollicking laugh. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

  “I should think there’s a good deal of human interest available among the female population, with three thousand males absent all the summer,” Mrs Hale dryly remarked.

  Nikki, reflected Clare, seems to be in a state of eve
n greater euphoria than usual: it really does look as if he’d made an assignation with Melissa. But how do they propose to get rid of Ianthe?

  II

  “Why do we have to have these absurd landing-cards? I know I shall lose mine one day,” exclaimed Mrs Blaydon.

  “Red tape. Pure red tape,” Mr Bentinck-Jones snorted.

  The flat, pedantic voice of Primrose Chalmers was heard. “Landing-cards are a convenience,” she announced.

  “If we didn’t have them, it would be necessary to show our passports every time we went ashore.”

  “Why does this wretched child keep following us about?” muttered Ianthe, all too audibly.

  “I’m not following you. I’m standing in the queue behind you. Landing-cards are also useful so that the purser can check up whether all the passengers who disembarked returned to the ship. I should have thought that was obvious.”

  “Don’t be insolent, little girl!” Ianthe snapped.

  “I was just stating the facts.”

  “I’m sure my daughter had no intention of offending you,” said Primrose’s mother in a soothing voice. Ianthe was far from being soothed.

  “When I want to be lectured to by schoolgirls, I will ask for it,” she said, her face twitching.

  The Chalmers parents remained impassive. This sort of resistance was a commonplace to lay analysts: one felt that a steam-roller could pass over them without crushing them. Primrose, however, was less impervious to neurotic out-bursts: she gave Ianthe’s back an extremely baleful look, and seemed about to renew the controversy.

  At this point, however, the queue began to move towards the gangway. Melissa, holding her wicker case in one hand, helped her sister down the steep incline.

  Nigel Strangeways, meanwhile, had been taken aside by Mr Trubody and brought to a quiet corner of the lounge. The father of Faith and Peter was a distinguished-looking elderly man with a white moustache and the brisk, authoritative manner of the business tycoon.

  “You’re not going ashore at once?” It was less a question than a statement, though courteously delivered.

  “No. We’ve got all day here.”

  “I wanted to have a word with you about Peter. I don’t know what you said to him yesterday afternoon, but——”

  “He hasn’t told you?”

  Mr Trubody smiled. “I’m not always in Peter’s confidence. But I can guess. It’s a bit of a headache. He swears Miss Ambrose damaged his aqua-lung, and he wants me to have it out with her.”

  “I see.”

  “There are wheels within wheels here. You see, Peter and Faith are twins, and very close to each other. Peter has got it into his head that Miss Ambrose was behind Faith’s having to leave her school last year—I mean, that Miss Ambrose did it out of some personal spite.”

  “And what do you think yourself?”

  “I was far from satisfied by the headmistress’s account of things. But I was not in a position to fight the case, so I had to take Faith away.”

  “And now Peter is doing the fighting? A guerilla campaign?”

  Mr Trubody looked just a little huffy. He had had his children late in life, and now as a widower was inclined to spoil them or let them go their own way, Nigel surmised: the twins were by no means a wholly favourable testimonial to their upbringing.

  “Guerilla campaign? Surely that’s putting it a bit too strongly, Strangeways?”

  Nigel decided against telling Trubody yet what Clare had overheard at Delos. “Peter wants justice done to his sister, he told me. I’m not sure how scrupulous he would be in forwarding the good cause,” said Nigel cautiously.

  “There’s nothing vicious about the boy. Are you suggesting?——”

  “You saw the hole in the tube of the aqua-lung?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Do you think it could have been bored by a small pair of, nail-scissors? In twenty minutes, say?”

  “What’s in your mind?” asked Mr Trubody, glancing shrewdly at him.

  “There’s a possibility that Peter could have made the hole himself.”

  “But—but that’s a fantastic suggestion. Sheer melodrama.”

  “The young can be melodramatic. And is it any less fantastic to suppose that Miss Ambrose did it? tried to drown your son?”

  “The woman is unbalanced.”

  “I agree. But I doubt if she could have made that hole with nail-scissors. Are we to suppose that she kept some large, sharp-pointed instrument secreted about her person, on the off-chance that she could get hold of Peter’s aqua-lung and damage it?”

  Mr Trubody smoothed his neat moustache. He was shocked, but not incapable of judging a proposition on its merits.

  “What could Peter expect to get out of such a—such an extraordinary trick?”

  “Well, perhaps he hoped it would produce a show-down between Miss Ambrose and yourself.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “He believes, rightly or wrongly, that she was responsible for your daughter’s trouble at school and for the brain-fever which resulted from it. He believes Miss Ambrose persecuted Faith. It is possible—I don’t say it’s the truth—that Peter has decided to persecute Miss Ambrose back.”

  “Oh, come, come! Boyish pranks, yes; but not cold-blooded vindictiveness like that.”

  “Well, of course, you know Peter best. But he passionately wants his sister’s name cleared, as he puts it. It may be that he thinks, if he could break Miss Ambrose down, she could be made to confess that her accusations against Faith were false. That’s what I meant by persecution-campaign.”

  There was a silence. Mr Trubody fiddled with his gold cigarette case, took out a cigarette, stared at it, put it back. He was seeking, Nigel guessed, to adjust his mind to the idea of Peter as a Vindice—the 17-year-old, conventional, rather pompous house-prefect, the clean-limbed, clean-living son, playing about in such muddy waters.

  “How do you come into this?” he asked at last.

  “I don’t think it would do anyone any good—not even Peter and Faith—if Miss Ambrose were pushed over the edge.”

  “No,” said Mr Trubody after another pause. “I simply cannot credit it. I’ve always found Peter a responsible boy. Mind you, he is reckless physically. But just now he’s at the stage of taking himself very seriously—well, a bit self-important and priggish. I can’t see him acting in such a childish way: he’d think it beneath his dignity.”

  “Perhaps it’s the sea air.”

  Mr Trubody frowned at what seemed to him a flippancy.

  “Cruise life,” continued Nigel, “does breed irresponsibility. Look at all the shipboard ‘romances’. And it’s easy for boys of 17 to regress into childishness, particularly when they have an overdose of responsibility at school. It’s a kind of compensation.”

  “You may be right,” said Mr Trubody briskly, with the air of closing a business conference. “I’ll keep an eye on the boy. Talking of shipboard romances, Peter’s a bit sweet on the sister, have you noticed? Well, calf-love won’t do him any harm. Attractive woman. Perhaps she’ll put all this nonsense about Miss Ambrose out of his head.”

  Yes, thought Nigel, it’s all very easy and civilised: but, like a good many business high-ups, you haven’t much time for personal moral problems.

  III

  Clare and Nigel sat outside a little café facing the harbour, with glasses of ouzo and iced water on the table. The whole population of Kalymnos, it seemed, had turned out to inspect the visitors. A handsome boy, carrying a tray of cakes, stopped at their table, was driven away by the café proprietor, but soon drifted back. Nigel bought some cakes: then Clare took out her sketch-book and began a quick sketch of the boy. A crowd of children instantly collected, were dispersed by one of the Tourist Police, and reassembled as soon as he had moved on. Barefoot, swarthy, ragged, they had enough vitality to power a factory: the girls tended to group themselves at a little distance, giggling or staring pertinaciously at Nigel: the boys were bolder; they crowded round Clare,
breathing down her neck, yelling encouragement to the cake-boy, who struck a variety of attitudes in front of Clare.

  Presently she took out the leaf and presented her sketch to him. He held it in both hands, with a natural reverence that she found most moving; then selected four more cakes and gave them to her, his face positively flood-lit with pleasure and pride.

  A larger, sullen-looking boy, who had been standing nearby but dissociating himself from the general fraternisation, now moved away.

  “Do not mind him. He is political. Communist,” said the cake-boy.

  “You speak English, then.”

  “I learn. In school.”

  “You will go to America?”

  “No. I stay here. My father is the most good baker in Kalymnos. Then I shall be the most good.”

  After they had been chatting a while, the sullen-looking boy returned, with a small octopus writhing round his hand and wrist. He bashed the octopus many times on the cobbles. Clare was about to protest, but the cake-boy said, “Make more soft. More good to eat.”

  The sullen boy, throwing back his hair and smiling cautiously at Clare, offered her the octopus. She accepted it with every appearance of delight. After a tactful interval, Nigel gave the boy a 50-drachma note. He stared at it: astonishment, suspicion, greed and pride chased one another over his face. Then he beamed from ear to ear, and suddenly raced off with the note as if he had stolen it. The mob of children, yelling, pursued him: two of them, in sheer excess of emotion, hurled themselves off the quayside into the sea.

  “What on earth am I to do with this octopus?” asked Clare desperately. “It’s not dead yet.”

  “Eat it alive, darling.”

  “I don’t even like them cooked. It’s like eating strips of rubber ball. Hello, isn’t that Nikki?”

  The children having dispersed, they could see right along the quayside to the harbour offices near which they had disembarked. The square-shouldered figure of the cruise-manager was moving away from them, a hundred yards off. He was alone. He glanced round once or twice; and his gait was that of a man who, without actually walking on tiptoe, seeks not to attract attention. He kept close to the walls of the white and blue houses, walking in their shadow, and in a moment was lost to view.