A Poison of Passengers

by Jack Treby

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ I said. My thoughts drifted back to the match I had stumbled across on the first afternoon, when some American had bested the vicar at shuffleboard. I had tried to get one of the officers to place a bet, but he had refused. Actually, it had been that doctor fellow, now I came to think of it. I hadn’t known him at the time. It was his loss, though, not taking the bet. ‘I’m not the world’s greatest gambler,’ I admitted.

  The over forties were now lining up, all five of them in their stripy knee length drawers, taking their place at the far end of the baths. The pool itself was long and narrow in the Roman style, not deep by any means but graduated, as these things are. A low roof hung over the entire area. The crowd was gathered along the nearside of the pool, in front of the changing cubicles. Most of them were fully dressed but a few were in bathing suits; those taking part in later competitions. A set of wooden columns broke up the crowd along the length of a white marble floor. The first contest was to be a two length sprint, with lanes marked out for each of the competitors. It would likely be a brief affair, but energetic. The gym instructor, with his handlebar moustache, was standing by with a whistle and stopwatch at the far end.

  ‘Now Harry,’ I continued, still thinking about the gambling. ‘He’d never place a bet that he wasn’t sure he could win. Rather defeats the purpose of gambling, if you ask me.’

  Mrs Hamilton-Baynes regarded me sadly for a moment. ‘You were very close to him?’

  ‘In some ways. Oh, here we go!’ The instructor had blown his whistle and the swimmers had plunged forward into the warm water without a second’s hesitation. The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes was on the near side and got off to a good start. The crowd roared, Mrs O’Neill waving her arms enthusiastically, while Mrs Hamilton-Baynes looked on with quiet amusement.

  ‘Do you swim?’ she asked, taking her eyes from the contest for a moment.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ I said. ‘Come on, reverend!’ Even without a bet on, I found myself unexpectedly engaged. ‘Look, he’s edging ahead.’ The swimmers were approaching us now, hands grabbing onto the nearside of the pool as they flipped over to begin the second leg. It was neck and neck between the reverend and one other fellow, a heavily whiskered gentleman who was puffing laboriously. The battle of the beards, no less. Damnation, why wasn’t somebody organising a book here? Or a sweepstake at the very least. As the two men streamed towards the finish line, the second fellow began to nudge ahead. The gym instructor blew his whistle and, having paid close attention to the edge of the pool, declared the whiskered man the winner. The crowd applauded enthusiastically. I turned back to Mrs Hamilton-Baynes. ‘Bad luck. He nearly had him there.’

  The vicar’s wife was unperturbed. ‘He’ll be happy with second place. He was worried he might come last.’ She smiled. ‘Swimming is not his strongest suit.’

  I scoffed at that. Hamilton-Baynes had put in a pretty convincing performance. ‘He’d put a fair few Olympians to shame.’ Mrs O’Neill had been right to drag me down here this afternoon. Despite my best efforts, I was beginning to enjoy myself.

  ‘You’re glad you came?’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’ It was not quite racing at Newmarket, but it was an admirable diversion nonetheless. I glanced at the smiling faces of the crowd. At the far end of the pool, the vicar was being helped out of the water. ‘I’m surprised Sir Richard and Lady Jocelyn aren’t here,’ I said. I would have thought they would have turned out to offer a little encouragement.

  ‘I don’t think they would enjoy it just now,’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes said. ‘They’re not in the best of moods at the moment.’

  ‘Oh?’

  At the far end of the hall, the vicar was being handed his towel. Various supporters were slapping him on the back and congratulating him on his performance.

  ‘I’m afraid there was a bit of a contretemps after lunch,’ she explained.

  ‘An argument? Between the two of them?’

  ‘No, not between them. Between Jocelyn and her maid.’

  ‘Ah. You mean, the one she’s sharing a room with?’

  ‘Jenny Simpkins, yes.’

  ‘Never easy, bunking down with a servant.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But they’re also sharing with Matilda, the cat.’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes’ eyes flashed with gentle amusement. ‘Jocelyn absolutely dotes on her. Unfortunately, she got out on deck yesterday morning. The head steward wasn’t at all happy.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that. Gave poor Mr Hopkins quite a scratch.’

  ‘The steward came to see her. Jocelyn, I mean. He told her if Matilda got out again, she would be put down in the hold. I think if it had been anyone else, he would have done it then and there. But Jocelyn was incensed. She’s devoted to that cat. Matilda has been her only source of comfort, these last few months.’

  ‘Since her husband died?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman nodded seriously. ‘She gave strict instructions to Jenny and to Ernest to watch themselves every time they went in and out of the door. But somehow, Matilda managed to get out again this morning.’

  ‘Oh, lord.’

  ‘Ernest found her, thankfully, before anyone saw, but Jocelyn was furious. She accused Jenny of letting the cat out deliberately. She’s given her her notice. It’s all very awkward.’

  ‘Her notice?’

  ‘It’s been brewing for some time.’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes sighed. ‘Jocelyn has never really liked the girl. She says she’s far too insolent. And talks far too much. Also, she thinks she’s rather too fond of Ernest. Of Mr Hopkins.’

  I lifted an eyebrow. That was the first I had heard of that, though it did not surprise me.

  ‘They’re sweet on each other, I believe. But Jocelyn won’t allow it. She doesn’t think it’s right for a servant to carry on like that. Making eyes at a secretary.’

  ‘No, it is rather bad form,’ I agreed. Servants were not supposed to have private lives. It got in the way of their work. I was lucky with Maurice. He had never shown any interest in such things. ‘So Miss Simpkins has been dismissed?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘That’s going to be a bit awkward, isn’t it, if they’re sharing a room?’

  ‘It’s not ideal. But she’ll be working out her notice period.’

  ‘Perhaps they could swap,’ I thought. ‘Put Miss Wellesley in with Lady Jocelyn and the maid in with Susan. If she doesn’t object.’

  ‘That might be a good idea,’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes agreed. ‘But it’s Jenny I’m worried about. Jocelyn can be a little stubborn sometimes, and she’s adamant she won’t provide a character. She’ll pay the girl her dues to the end of the week, but nothing more. And without a reference, the poor girl won’t get another job. She’ll be destitute.’

  ‘Doesn’t she have a family?’

  ‘Her parents disowned her. She has no-one. I wish there was something I could do.’

  I could not think of anything to suggest. The life of a servant is never an easy one.

  The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes was now moving along the side of the pool, drying himself off with his towel and accepting the commiserations of various strangers. A huge smile radiated out of that heavy beard as he locked eyes with his wife. At the far end of the pool, the gym instructor was already preparing for the next race. These were the younger men, and my eye strayed briefly at the sight of them. A bathing costume, for a man or a woman, is never flattering, but some people can carry it off better than others, particularly the young. Mrs Hamilton-Baynes, however, had eyes only for her husband. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said, pulling away. ‘I should congratulate the returning hero.’

  ‘Be my guest.’ I smiled.

  The body was wrapped in a light cotton shroud, laid on top of a short ramp, which led over the side of the ship. We had gathered on the aft deck, in the open air, to pay our last respects to my old friend. It was a reasonable turn out, on a chilly morning, mostly staff and crewmen, with a few friends and acq
uaintances, but very few people who really knew Harry. A garland of flowers had been placed on top of the shroud. I had insisted on that. Harry had sent a wreathe to my funeral. It was the least I could do to return the favour; and the garden lounge on A Deck could do without a few of its blooms. It would have amused Harry no end to know that I had stolen some of them.

  ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the lord,’ the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes intoned, dressed now in respectable black robes and with an appropriately sombre expression. Mrs O’Neill, similarly attired in black silk, was clutching hands with Miss Wellesley off to his right as the comforting drone continued. Mrs O’Neill was sobbing quietly. It was surprising that the older woman, who had already buried one husband, should react so forcefully, whereas a young slip of a thing like Miss Wellesley was holding herself together. But such are the vagaries of constitution. Both women had helped me with the flowers, weaving them together into a fine bouquet. I had not told them where they had come from.

  Mrs Hamilton-Baynes was observing her husband with quiet pride as he worked his way through the service. Lady Jocelyn and her brother were close by, suitably stone-faced, though in the case of her ladyship that was pretty much her default expression. She had one of those faces that could not help but look severe.

  ‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’ Hamilton-Baynes had a prayer book resting in his left hand, but he knew the words by heart. How many people had he buried? I wondered. ‘And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’ It was kind of the reverend to conduct the service. There was a resident dog collar man onboard ship, but Hamilton-Baynes had thought the personal touch might be more appropriate. He might not have known Harry well, but at least he could speak from personal experience. A peculiar fellow, Hamilton-Baynes, certainly unlike any Church of England vicar I had ever met, but I was gradually coming to admire him and his charming, modest wife. In his naive enthusiasm for life, the reverend was probably closer to the ideal of the mother church than many another more overtly pious individual. There was no one better to see Harry Latimer on his way to the afterlife.

  The mourners stood around respectfully as the wind whistled through our hair. The sea was a little rough this morning, though the sun was peeking through the clouds above us, and everyone had dressed up against the cold. Maurice had insisted I wear my thickest overcoat and that was proving its worth. The valet had offered to pay his respects, along with the other mourners, but I had absolved him of the responsibility. It was a decent thought, but I didn’t want him having a fit or fainting and embarrassing me, up here on deck in the open air. Better for him to stay buried down below, well away from the sight of the sea.

  Actually, the turnout was rather better than I had expected. Alongside the people who knew him, there were a number of stewards and seamen, some of whom had carried the litter out onto the deck. I wondered idly if one of these fellows had helped Harry to smuggle his pearls onboard. Doctor Armstrong was here too, alongside the head steward, and the captain of the Galitia, Steven Curtis, a grim, austere figure in a crisp naval uniform.

  The only people who seemed out of place were standing over by the hatch. Two hefty looking brutes had appeared from nowhere early on in the service, while the rest of us had been singing a rather tuneless hymn. They were tall and broad shouldered, dressed respectfully enough for the occasion, though their suits looked a little rough and their faces were hard masks of flesh. I leaned in to Mrs Hamilton-Baynes, after the hymn had concluded. ‘Who are those two?’ I asked. But the vicar’s wife had no idea. Someone from second or third class, perhaps. I did not like the look of them one little bit.

  ‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed,’ Hamilton-Baynes continued, as the service moved inexorably towards its conclusion, ‘we commit his body to the deep; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ He muttered a few final words and then the inevitable ‘Amen.’ I repeated the word, along with the rest of the congregation, and felt my stomach lurch. I have never been much of a one for religious ceremonies – I am not a regular church goer – but at moments like this, I could understand their value; the comfort and reassurance they give, a much needed sense of continuity in the face of oblivion.

  A couple of crewmen stepped forward to grab hold of the ramp on which Harry’s body lay. I looked away for a moment. The two strangers were staring grimly ahead, their hands held in front of their waists, as the shroud with its garland of flowers slipped softly from the ramp. I turned back just in time to see the cocoon slip off the far end and plummet out of view. Such was the noise of the wind that none of us heard the sound as the body hit the water. But that was it. Harry was gone. I turned back to look at the two men, but they had also departed.

  The note was as blunt and as cowardly as all the others, and just as personal. “YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A LEECH,” it said. “YOU ATTACH YOURSELF TO VULNERABLE WOMEN, HOPING TO BLEED THEM DRY. YOU HAVE NO SHAME AT ALL BUT YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT.” Maurice had discovered the envelope on the mat while I was attending the funeral. He had been returning a couple of darned socks. The note must have been slipped underneath the door. When I popped back briefly after the service – to pick up a spare handkerchief to replace the one Mrs O’Neill had just borrowed – my valet was waiting for me. He had not presumed to open the envelope but he had taken note of the cover. The words “MR HENRY BUXTON” were typed on the front. ‘The same capital letters,’ he observed, as he handed it across.

  ‘The same displacement too,’ I said, scanning the message inside.

  ‘It is from the same typewriter, Monsieur. There can be no doubt.’

  ‘“YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT”. That was what it said in Sir Richard’s letter.’

  ‘Perhaps the writer is a religious man,’ Maurice suggested. ‘Did you not say that the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes uses a typewriter to compose his sermons?’

  ‘Yes, he does.’ I looked up from the note. ‘But I can’t see him bottling up anything like this.’ I was reluctant to pin the blame on the vicar. I was starting to quite like the fellow. ‘He doesn’t strike me as the type.’

  ‘A religious man must place the concerns of his flock above those of himself. Who knows what turmoil resides beneath the surface?’

  ‘Of Hamilton-Baynes?’ I scoffed. ‘You do talk rot sometimes, Morris. He’s not the sort of man to have an inner life. Far too busy for that. But I suppose it could be someone close to him; someone else in the Reynolds Suite.’

  ‘Mrs Hamilton-Baynes?’ Maurice suggested.

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I don’t think that woman has an unkind bone in her body.’ She had shown great sympathy for the plight of her cousin’s servant; more sympathy than I would have allowed. I returned the letter to its envelope. ‘I suppose I ought to be flattered, that the bounder’s attention has extended to me. I don’t think much for his timing, though. Today of all days. Do you have that handkerchief?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ The valet reached down to a drawer and produced a fresh piece of cloth, which he folded up and placed in my breast pocket.

  ‘How do I look?’

  Maurice reached forward and flattened down a stray wisp of hair. The wind had been a little strong up on deck. ‘You will do, Monsieur.’

  I had no further time to think about the note. Sir Richard and Lady Jocelyn had organised a small reception over in the Reynolds Suite, in the aftermath of the funeral. It would be rude of me not to put in an appearance. I left Maurice behind to lock up the bedroom and hurried across the deck to the port side.

  The gathering was already in full swing. The Reynolds Suite was the ideal location. There was plenty of room and a fair few people were scattered across the lounge, chatting happily away. Lady Jocelyn greeted me at the door. A couple of stewards had been drafted in to serve the drinks and the nibbles. There was no sign of the maid, who was presumably now person
a non grata, but Lady Jocelyn led me through the crowd and made sure I was properly attended to. ‘It’s very kind of you, arranging all this,’ I said.

  ‘It was the least we could do. I hope the service was to your satisfaction.’

  ‘First class,’ I said, waving away the offer of an apricot cocktail. ‘Harry would have been proud.’ In fact, my old friend would not have cared one way or the other. A game of cards and a bottle of brandy, that would have been a far more appropriate send off for a man like Harry. But it was a kind thought, nonetheless. ‘I must have a word with the reverend and thank him for the service.’

  ‘He is always happy to help,’ Lady Jocelyn said. ‘He is an unusual man, Joshua, but he does rise to the occasion when required.’

  Damning with faint praise, I thought. I wondered if Lady Jocelyn had disapproved of the marriage between him and her cousin. It was difficult to tell with a woman like that. Her gaunt face and cold blue eyes gave nothing away. ‘It was a good turn out too,’ I added. ‘Thoughtful of the captain to put in an appearance.’

  ‘Yes, I thanked Steven personally,’ she said. I resisted the temptation to comment on that. First name terms with the captain. No wonder the head steward had granted her one last chance with the cat.

  Sir Richard Villiers had spotted me from the far side of the sofa. ‘Help yourself to food, old boy,’ he said, coming across. ‘Plenty on offer. What did you think of the service?’

  ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘A good turnout.’ The conversations at these functions had a tendency to be a trifle repetitive. ‘Didn’t recognise everyone there though.’

  ‘No, a few odd looking coves about,’ Sir Richard agreed, with evident distaste.

  ‘Those men who appeared at the back, by the hatchway. Did you see them?’

  ‘Yes, I saw them. Rough looking sort.’

  ‘You don’t know who they were? I’d not seen them before.’