“You’re quite right,” Brownlow said. “We have to agree on a story.”
“What do you mean?” said Duff. “There’s been a murder.” He looked over at the count. “Possibly two.”
“It’s not simply murder, Duff,” Metcalfe countered. “It’s a nasty international incident—one that could cause His Highness a lot of stinking trouble. Unless we find another way of dealing with the matter.”
There was a loud, sudden splash. The dead crewman had been thrown overboard, by Olga Maretzka. She eyed them all defiantly.
“There,” she said, in her thick accent. “Now you have three drownings. Accidents. In the storm.”
Kees stared at her in unhappy amazement. “You can’t do that.”
Olga shrugged. “It’s done. See. He slips beneath the surface.”
“Who are you?” Diana asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Olga, turning away slightly to observe the approaching liner. “Just someone who has no more interest than you in being interrogated for hours or days in a New York or Canadian police station.”
After a long silence, Metcalfe was the first to speak. “Well, there we are.”
“Is everyone agreed?” Brownlow asked.
No one answered him, but he took that for an affirmative response. Kees was troubled by the situation that now confronted him. If he filed a complete report on what had happened, he would have to implicate Olga—perhaps involve her in serious trouble. She was obviously very afraid of that.
“What about the officer’s leg?” Mountbatten said.
“Injured in the storm,” Brownlow said.
“And the bullet hole in the wheelhouse window?”
Metcalfe rose, picking up an oar. He went to the wheelhouse and smashed the oar against the rest of the glass. “It was a very bad storm,” he said, returning to his seat. “Someone hand me a bucket. We’ve got to wash away all this blood.”
Olga went up to Kees and examined his leg, taking up the cloth of his pants where the bullet had gone through. With a sudden ripping, it gave way. Mountbatten came up to help her.
“Find the first aid kit,” he said to no one in particular. Diana rose and crawled over them to search for it in the wheelhouse.
Kees’s leg was bleeding badly. The bullet had torn through skin and muscle. But the bone had not been touched and the wound looked like a long gash.
The Wilhelmina was bearing down on them. The submarine, in the way of such craft, had quietly disappeared.
“And what will you do, Lieutenant Spencer?” Edwina asked. She was holding the count’s head close to her breast.
“I will get some brandy,” Spencer said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After being examined by the ship’s doctor once back aboard the Wilhelmina, the group divided according to mood and circumstance. The prince, Lady Emerald, Chips Channon, and the Coopers, feeling the nervous effusion that often accompanies survival of a life-threatening ordeal, went to the prince’s suite for celebratory drinks, though Mrs. Simpson took a hot bath and went directly to bed. Mrs. Parker was given a strong sedative and sent to her cabin to sleep. The Mountbattens went to their quarters to change out of their ridiculous fancy dress clothing, but Edwina left quickly after to join Count von Kresse in his cabin, where she found him seated in a chair staring mournfully at his sister’s empty bed. Mountbatten thought of joining the prince’s party, but first made himself a pink gin. He took it to an armchair and picked up one of his European genealogy books, but quickly fell asleep with the book and the drink falling untidily to the carpet.
Nancy Cunard and Henry Crowder vanished belowdecks, going immediately to the third-class bar. Metcalfe and Lord Brownlow held a brief reunion with Inspector Runcie, who had been left to another lifeboat, informing him in cursory fashion of their misadventure, noting that three people had died accidentally but giving no details. Then they dispatched him to the door of the prince’s quarters and held a quiet conference between themselves in the major’s stateroom.
“We have two problems,” said Metcalfe, pouring them both whiskies. His hands were slightly unsteady.
“Only two?”
“Two significant problems. One is His Royal Highness’s safety. Though I’m certainly glad to be off that wretched motorboat, I’ve no great confidence in the Wilhelmina’s completing this voyage.”
“I quite agree, I’m afraid,” said Brownlow. “The after-superstructure looks like it’s been shelled. I shouldn’t be surprised they end up having to scuttle her.”
“We have simply got to get the prince onto another ship.”
“And it will have to be British. I was going to inform the palace of the prince’s rescue in any event. I’ll have them dispatch a naval vessel at once.”
“The captain is going to make for port. He won’t put up with any delays for a rendezvous,” Metcalfe said. “Damn stubborn Dutchman.”
“He does seem to have done a bloody good job of keeping this firetrap afloat, though. I’m certain the Admiralty can dispatch a destroyer or cruiser out of Canadian waters soon enough to intercept us. What’s our other significant problem?”
“Some corpses at sea, Perry. I’ve been thinking about how bloody serious a business it will be if we don’t report those two murders. Obstruction of justice is a felonious act, and we’d be involving His Highness. At the least, he might be called upon to testify or make a deposition in some Dutch maritime court. Unthinkable.”
“But we’ve all agreed, Fruity. And think of the alternative. Better to involve him in a felony than in a screaming public scandal,” Brownlow said.
“I’m not sure we can get away with it,” said Metcalfe, sipping the warm whiskey thoughtfully.
“Think of all the other things that have been managed for the prince. Thelma Furness in Africa. That pregnant woman in Chicago. Good God, man. We managed to help him get away with Mrs. Simpson.”
“For now.”
“It’s worth a try, Fruity. If the real story were to get out, we’d all be in the slops.”
“Edwina and Dickie are certainly safe,” Metcalfe reflected, “as I’m sure are Emerald and Chips and the Coopers. They’re all loyal to a fault. And the count won’t talk. He committed one of the murders.”
“I’d hardly call what he did murder. It was bloody marvelous. The prince was nearly killed.”
“We could have rescued the countess. We all just sat and watched her go under.”
“Now don’t you start feeling guilt, Perry. This was something between them. Deuced strange people, the Germans.”
“What about Nancy Cunard and her, uh, gentleman?” Brownlow asked.
“They wouldn’t be believed,” said the major. “Especially Nancy, but we’d better have a bit of a chat with Crowder. I’m sure he can be bought off.”
“What about Mrs. Parker? She can’t be bought off,” Brownlow said. “She’s now a very rich widow.”
“It’s no matter to her, is it? Her husband wasn’t murdered. His death was entirely accidental—his own bloody fault, at that. But I’ll have a talk with her when she’s calmer. She seems a decent sort, and I’m sure would be glad to serve the interests of the British Crown. I’ll simply tell her we’re taking care of all the official reports. And not to talk to the newspapers.”
Brownlow rose and began walking about the stateroom. “That young third officer will be making an official report, and he certainly can’t be bought.”
“He’s smitten with the Polish woman, or whatever she is,” Metcalfe said. “And she’s already part of our little conspiracy. I think he’ll be looking out for her, but I’ll have a chat with him just to see where matters stand.”
“I shouldn’t worry about the actress,” Brownlow said. “She has her career to think about. She won’t want to get involved in a lot of nasty muck about murders when she can walk off this ship such a glamorous heroine. I suppose, however, she might make a confession to some priest. Irish, you know.”
“I’m Irish, as we
ll, Perry, and I can assure you that the sanctity of the confessional is just that, though I’ve had no personal experience with it.”
“So we’re left with just one other question mark,” said Brownlow, pausing at a porthole. “Chips’s newspaperman friend. He’s a correspondent, don’t you know. I had that checked. He’s the Paris bureau chief for his father’s newspaper.”
“He seems something of a gentleman,” the major said. “Perhaps Chips can obtain his word of honor on it. To protect Edwina’s reputation or something like that.”
“Edwina’s reputation?” Brownlow laughed nervously.
“He also seems a little down on his luck,” Metcalfe said. “Possibly he can be bought off, as well.”
“What if he’s neither a gentleman nor can be bought?”
“Perhaps we can have Edwina prevail upon him in some fashion. She has a number of fashions. Now let’s go join the others. I fear the prince may do something outlandish now that we’re back aboard. We’ll have to keep him as circumspect as possible before we get him onto a British vessel.”
“That reminds me, Fruity. We have a third significant problem.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Simpson.”
“She’s certainly not going to talk,” Metcalfe said.
“I know, but what are we going to do with her? We can’t have her sharing the prince’s quarters on a Royal Navy warship.”
“We’ll have to arrange something,” said Fruity. “He won’t leave without her.”
“Dear, dear, dear,” said Lord Brownlow, draining his glass. “There are times when I fear that’s going to be a permanent condition.”
Kees knew that his first duty was to report to the bridge and then to see to his wound, which was painful, though not disabling. But he wanted to see Olga safe and comfortable in her quarters first. She was, however, unwilling to go to them.
“Kees,” she said as they reached the ship’s main stairway. “I don’t want to stay down there. I will never be able to sleep. I want to be up here, near the lifeboats.”
“But this is first class,” he said.
“Yes? So? The ship has been on fire. They’ve moved many to new quarters. I am afraid to be down there.”
He paused, biting his lip. The bleeding had stopped quickly and the bandage around his thigh was tight, but he was beginning to hurt awfully. He thought again of going first to ship’s hospital, but again decided to wait.
“You can stay in my cabin,” he said. “It’s against regulations, but it’s a regulation that is broken often.”
“Your cabin, is it up here? Is it in first class?”
“Near enough. One deck below. I’ll come get you in a few minutes. Now I have to report to the captain.”
She kissed him. Their lips and faces were rough from the sea and weather, but they held each other tightly.
“Thank you, Kees. I am grateful to you. For everything. But promise me something. Please don’t tell anyone what I did on the little boat. I don’t want to get in any trouble with authorities. Too much in my life have I been in trouble with authorities. Please, Kees. Promise.”
He looked into her face intently, smiling, then kissed her again.
“If I told them what you did, I should have to tell them what all of us did, including me. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this. Now gather your things together and we’ll move you in with me.”
He kissed her forehead. Her hair badly needed washing, but he supposed his did, too.
When Kees had left the bridge the eternity ago that was the previous night, it had been a dark, crimson hell with the light from the flames aft playing fiendishly over the shadowy windows and bulkheads. All had been madness and confusion, with charts, maps, rescue equipment, and life jackets scattered everywhere.
Now it had been restored to perfect order. The windows had been scrubbed clean and the handrail that ran beneath newly polished so that it gleamed in the bright afternoon sunlight. The chart table was as neat as a draftman’s board. The officers and crewmen stood at their positions almost at attention. Van Groot, like the others, had changed into a crisp, clean uniform and stood stiffly just behind the quartermaster, his arms folded behind him so exactly that the gold braid on his sleeves seemed run together in unbroken lines. They might have been sailing out of port for the very first time.
But, of course, they were not.
“I saw them bring your boat back aboard,” van Groot said, gruffly but not meanly. He turned to note Kees’s arrival.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you all right?” van Groot asked, though with little benevolence in his voice.
“I cut my leg, Mr. van Groot. But not so badly. I’ll be all right.”
“You are missing some of your party.”
“Yes, sir, three.”
“But not our royal guest? I was unable to tell with all of them in costumes and blankets.”
“No, sir, and none of his companions or entourage. We lost the American Mr. Parker, the Countess von Kresse, and a crewman, the only one I had aboard.”
“And how did these misfortunes happen?” Van Groot still had his hands folded behind his back. Kees sometimes wondered if the man hoped to become captain simply by acting like one.
Kees returned the first officer’s gaze steadily but said nothing, gathering his thoughts.
“Mr. Parker fell overboard while trying to relieve himself over the side in heavy seas,” Kees said finally. He was drunk. His wife tried to rescue him but had to be rescued herself, by Mr. Spencer, the American whom Lady Mountbatten had moved into first class.”
“And?”
“And Mrs. Parker and Spencer are fine. They were only in the water a minute or two.”
“And what about the Countess von Kresse?”
“Yes, sir. She fell overboard also, climbing up on the gunwale while quarreling with her brother. She was quite hysterical. She went under before we could get to her. I was prevented from turning the boat in time.”
“Prevented?”
“I—I was not at the helm, sir.”
“No one was at the helm?”
Kees had a great craving to lower his eyes, but he kept them level. The glittering sun on the sea was beginning to make them hurt. Van Groot’s face was virtually a silhouette, his blue eyes faint glimmers within it. Kees was reminded of a police interrogation, which in a way he supposed this was.
“No, sir,” Kees said. “I was attending to one of the passengers and my crewman was by then already dead.”
“How so?”
“He was slammed back against the wheelhouse and suffered a serious hemorrhage, sir. A window was broken. There was blood all over the floorboards, though we cleaned it up.”
“I saw no crewman’s body carried off, Kees.”
“He, too, went overboard, sir, when we were trying to deal with the countess.”
“In heavy seas.”
“Yes, sir. Very heavy. It was very bad back there, in a small boat.”
Van Groot stared at him for a long time without speaking, then sighed and went over to the captain’s chair, seating himself gently.
“Very well, Kees. Make out a report as soon as you can. Leave out nothing that is pertinent.”
“Yes, sir,” Kees retreated, then hesitated. “Mr. van Groot, where is the captain?”
“The captain,” said the first officer, in practiced fashion, “is sleeping.”
“Sleeping, sir?”
“Yes. Very deeply. And I think for a very long time. His hands were burned in the fire. In the meantime, I will be in command. I have returned the vessel to a course for New York. To my amazement, we are making fifteen knots. We will not win the Bleu Ribband for fastest Atlantic crossing, but I think we will complete our voyage without much further delay. All the fires are out and all is secure.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kees, but he got no farther than the doorway.
“Kees,” Van Groot said. “With so many deaths involved, I think we should have stat
ements from witnesses as well.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get them from Commander Mountbatten and Major Metcalfe. All in proper military fashion.”
Van Groot nodded. “And have that leg attended to. I need every officer.”
Kees limped down the corridor as fast as he could. He would have to leave the frightened Olga in her quarters deep down below and deal with this all-important paperwork without delay. He went searching first for Lord Mountbatten.
Spencer and Nora sat quietly in opposite chairs in the sitting room of her suite. She looked pathetically sad, a child who’d been abandoned by everyone she loved. Spencer was merely weary, but deeply so, into his bones. He went to make drinks, but she would have none.
“Oh, God, Jimmy,” she said, looking down at the carpeting. “I feel so awful. I fear I’m going to feel this awful the rest of my life.”
“It’ll get better, Nora. Just give it time.”
“Every time I close my eyes I see those people in the water. I see them when my eyes are open. I see those horrible waves. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep.”
She raised herself slowly, tilting her head back over the top of her chair. She stared up at the ceiling, then closed her eyes, pounded her fists down once on the chair arms, and gave out a long primal scream. Then she hung limp, as if the effort had taken all of her energy.
He rose and poured brandy into a glass, adding water. He knelt before her, placing the glass gently into her hand. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she gripped it, perhaps gripped it too hard.
“I think this will help. We’ve all been in shock. Now it’s wearing off and we’re confronted with the reality of what we’ve been through. It was as bad as anything I saw in the war.” That was a lie, but not by much.
She looked down at him, her sad eyes still forlorn, but more trusting. She raised the glass hesitantly and took a long sip. Making a face, she set the brandy down on the table beside her as if it were a loathsome object. After rising with great effort, her arms hanging slack at her sides, she walked wearily toward her bedroom.
“I’m going to take a bath, Jimmy,” she said weakly. “A long hot bath.”
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