‘Can you hear me?’ Rory asked, sounding like someone whose head is buried in honey.
Murdo nodded. He said, ‘Find her. Keep her.’
‘I have to know her, Mr Hesketh,’ Rory said. Murdo caught it the second time. He told Rory, ‘She’s young. She has red hair. Or pink – more pink. You will know her by her hair.’
Rory Skilling left Murdo, who hunkered down on a salt barrel and dropped his face into his hands.
He saw again his servant’s alarmed face, saw the moment in which Ian Betler realised that his efforts to climb were outweighed by the downward progress of the ship. Murdo saw the feeble flurry of Ian’s arms, like a kitten tumbling off the edge of a chair, its claws failing to find an anchorage, muscle nothing against momentum. Murdo saw alarm turn to horror, and then saw the familiar figure churned under the hull, caught between the rollers of ship and sea. Ian’s hands went last, patting and paddling helplessly at the slick steel plates. For an instant Murdo had leaned out into this latest loss, hovered above it. Then he threw himself back over the keel and fell, scrambled, finally thrust himself free. He saved himself.
Somewhere nearby, and inaudible to him now, the boys, Rixon and Elov, were probably still sobbing and swapping stories, shocked, appalled, grateful – and all Murdo could feel was a kind of disappointment, as though he’d missed an opportunity, or failed a test. It made him queasy. It made him want to shed his cold, deaf, bruised self as he’d shed the coat. But he was curious, too – if this savage suspicion could be called curiosity. His consolation would be to discover why that girl jumped. Her. His culprit.
Murdo was suddenly fallen upon and pummelled by his big, clumsy cousin, whom he hadn’t heard coming. ‘Murdo! My dear fellow, are you all right?’ James Hallow, Lord Hallowhulme, was shouting. He was excited. He pawed Murdo, all the time issuing orders, making suggestions, giving advice to the people crowded around him. They were mostly men from the castle, all looking eager, as eager as hounds looking at the man with the horn, the master of the hunt. Hallowhulme managed Murdo to his feet, supported him, his big arm clasped across his cousin’s back. As he propelled his cousin along the pier, Hallowhulme continued to check and palpate and stroke Murdo’s neck and face and chest and stomach, saying, over and over, ‘Not hurt? Not hurt at all?’
‘No. I’m not hurt at all,’ Murdo said, too loud, and saw James wince. ‘I want to question that girl.’
James’s meaty, pleading face formed one of its most characteristic expressions – he looked at Murdo as if his cousin were an apparition, an unexplained phenomenon, and somehow as productive of indignation as of surprise. ‘Girl?’
Murdo explained. He mentioned her name.
James Hallow’s cheeks and forehead suffused with blood – he flushed as though humiliated. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘My cataloguer! He wasn’t supposed to be on the Gustav Edda.’
‘The girl is to blame,’ Murdo said; then, with some effort, ‘I suspect.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ Lord Hallowhulme was frowning mightily. He looked like a tot straining on a chamber pot – part pained, part delighted. ‘Surely not. Surely it was the boiler. Some fault with the boiler.’
‘No.’ Murdo was stubborn. His rage was stubborn. He shrugged off the supporting arm. ‘Why did she jump if she wasn’t to blame?’ He felt stifled, felt the good air drain away from his thinking. Air, or red blood. He was sick of being shown concern. He couldn’t feel any pain, only violent impatience. Around him and Hallowhulme lay figures in clothes dark with seawater and wrapped in blankets. Some were sitting, some supine. A stretcher went by with a sailor on it, up on one elbow and cradling his other arm. There were shapes motionless under dirty sailcloth. Others were lying with men at work on them, lifting their arms up and over, up and over, as though the rescuers were teaching the dead to row themselves across that final river. Murdo saw that boats continued to patrol the stretch of water above the wreck, which was still simmering in escaping air. The scene began to shrink, then faded to a red-shot darkness. Murdo hoped no one would catch him and, as he fainted, he thought he heard or felt his cousin abruptly stop fussing and take a step back. Murdo went down in a heap on the stones.
HE CAME to in his own bed. James’s wife, Clara, was by him, sitting in a straight-backed chair several feet away. Beyond Clara her maid, Jenny, stooped over a table and tray, conjuring steam in a bowl. Jenny was a lady’s maid but had, on this extraordinary occasion, deigned to descend to dispensing beef-tea.
The curtain was open, and Murdo could see an odd red radiance out on the pier.
Clara got up and came to the side of his bed, but she didn’t kneel, or even incline a little his way. ‘Can you hear me?’ she said.
Murdo could, but shook his head. He could postpone everything until daylight, until he was strong enough to get up. If no one told him what had been done in his absence – his stupor – who had taken charge, for instance, then he’d be able to pursue his own investigations. In the morning.
However, Clara seemed not to believe him, and kept on talking. She said that it had grown dark too soon. There were seven still unaccounted for, three from the ‘black gang’ – stokers – and four passengers. James had sent to the mainland for divers. Some of the island men had been down in the dark with a line and air hose, without any luck. Clara paused, said again, ‘Can you hear me?’ Then she called Jenny over, with the beef-tea. It was Jenny who got Murdo upright. Clara rearranged his pillows. But then Jenny disobligingly handed her mistress the bowl and Clara had to sit and assist Murdo at getting it to his lips. Clara told him his coat had followed him to the castle. It was hung up in the drying room, and already looked like a weeks-old seal carcass. ‘And we had to cut your gloves off. They shrank.’
His valise and two of his best suits and shirts and shoes were all in the submerged hold of the Gustav Edda, and his watch was on the table by the bed, case open, cogs stilled.
Clara said, about his clothes, that she imagined it all represented quite an investment of time and money. She asked Jenny to bring her brush case (his was gone). ‘One less thing for you to manage tomorrow by yourself.’
Jenny, who was at the door already, started and stared and blinked at Clara’s latest remarks – her mistress rubbing salt in her cousin’s wounds. Then Jenny let herself out, the door only opening wide enough to let her skirts past, and nearly closing on their hem.
Murdo pushed the bowl away from him.
‘Enough?’ Clara said. Then, ‘Can you hear me, Murdo?’
‘Yes,’ Murdo said.
‘Rixon told me that it was his impression that his father found and fussed over you before even looking for him.’ Clara waited, then asked, ‘Since when have you been such a favourite?’
IN THE morning no one came to open Murdo’s curtains, came carrying a hot kettle to take the chill off the water in the washbasin. Or, rather, Ian didn’t come.
For some minutes Murdo lay in the ruddy gloom – there was sun coming through a crack in his red brocade curtains. He couldn’t hear whether the house was up; his ears still buzzed and fluttered. But he supposed that it was up, and he felt forgotten. He had been only Ian Betler’s business. Now he was no one’s business.
Murdo kicked off his covers and thrashed out of bed like a child in the throes of a tantrum. He found himself on the rug in the middle of the bedroom floor, his muscles pulled, and cramping. Even his bones seemed bruised. His fingertips were still bloodless, yellow-white, and when he put them in the basin to splash his face he found that the overnight water felt warm. He dressed himself, shook scenting sprigs of thyme out of a good cotton shirt, wrestled his shoes off the shoe tree, and sat on the edge of his bed to put them on. It took him five minutes to brush the knots out of his hair, and he found only a quarter inch of macassar in the bottle on his bureau. The better stuff – French – was in the harbour. Murdo darkened and slicked his hair – which resisted, as usual.
Breakfast was in the dining room by Clara’s small conservatory. Past the b
egonias in their hanging baskets was a view of the black, wet tree trunks of Lady Hallowhulme Park. The sun had gone now, and the air was full of rain that the islanders, more droll than optimistic, persisted in calling ‘mist’.
On his cousin’s appearance James Hallow got up from his place, wiped his beard thoroughly with his napkin, and came around the table. ‘We hadn’t expected to see you up so soon,’ he said. He took Murdo by the elbow and showed him to his chair, drew it out, and pushed it in against the back of Murdo’s knees so that he sat rather abruptly. The butler, posted by the sideboard and the chafing dishes, made a few awkward and aborted movements, trying to make James feel his presence, and his own place. Lord Hallowhulme paused beside the butler and, without meeting his eye, patted the man several times, squarely, his big fingers drumming on starched shirtfront. Stay put. James took up a plate and began to displace covers and spoon out scrambled eggs, sausage, blood pudding, and kedgeree. He heaped the plate high, then laid it before Murdo quietly, without a flourish. At least he allowed Murdo to deal with his own napkin.
During this performance everyone at the table was silent, but once James was back in his own chair he resumed speaking. He was telling his son’s friend, Elov Jansen, about his kippering houses down at Southport. How far forward the construction was. ‘I’ll show you the plans after breakfast, shall I? There’s a new pier, jetty, and half a dozen houses for my managers. While you’re here we must get up a party to Southport. Overland, so you can appreciate some of the fine Palaeolithic sites between here and there.’
Elov nodded, bewildered. His food had long since ceased to steam; he hadn’t been able to tell when he might be called on to make an alert response.
James Hallow turned to Murdo and told him that the divers he’d sent for were not expected till the following day. There were times when it really was no virtue to be so out-of-the-way.
Elov Jansen gratefully turned his attention to his plate. Murdo watched the boy. Elov was, like Rixon, bruised beneath the eyes, waxy and unsteady. He seemed relieved that he had lost his host’s attention, and reassured by the quiet sobriety of Lord Hallowhulme’s latest remark.
Hallowhulme took a forkful of sausage into his mouth and chewed with mighty appetite, as though giving a demonstration of chewing. The fork’s tines thrust into a mound of rice and clashed on the plate. All James’s big noises and deliberate movements seemed to be saying ‘Come on, buck up’ to all of them. He swallowed, and started talking again. It was a shame, he said, that all those fellows on the pier hadn’t thought to use their hats. ‘Use their heads, and use their hats.’ He waited a decent interval, and with increasing delight, to be sure that no one knew what he meant – knew what he knew. ‘A hat makes a capital life preserver,’ he said, and then put down his fork to poke a finger in the air. ‘Provided it’s the stiff sort, silk or beaver or thick felt – a straw boater just wouldn’t be up to the job. No – a stiff hat and a pocket handkerchief are all a person needs to make a life preserver. At a pinch.’ James pushed his plate and cutlery aside to mime, and the invisible objects of his lesson immediately assumed real dimensions, real substance. He was pink with enthusiasm. ‘First you spread your handkerchief on the ground, then put the hat on it, brim down. Then you tie the handkerchief, careful to keep the knots upward and in the centre of the crown.’ He looked up, in turn, at his son Rixon, Rixon’s friend Elov, and at his daughter, Minnie, who was listening with a calm politeness that was obviously a cue to the bewildered Elov Jansen. ‘Then’ – James half rose from his chair, making his demonstration – ‘seizing the knot in one hand and keeping the opening of the hat upward, you can fearlessly plunge into deep water despite being unable to swim.’ He sat down again, dusted his palms together, to dissipate the particles of the imaginary hat and handkerchief. ‘There’s not enough emphasis in education on learning all the little tricks and devices that make us able to render assistance to our imperilled fellow creatures,’ James said. ‘There are boys and girls all over this island getting their catechism off by heart – in one of two flavours – but frankly, I think that the churches, having them for an hour on Sunday morning, should teach a few practical matters not related to mending nets, sowing barley, or cutting peat.’
Elov opened his mouth to say something. ‘But –’ Then he jumped.
Rixon had prodded him under the cover of the table. Rixon knew not to say a word, knew that it made no difference if you disagreed, agreed, asked a question, tried to turn the subject – there was endless potential energy in his father’s talk, and one word, one touch, would only set it rolling on again.
Lord Hallowhulme called for a fresh pot of tea. His daughter, Minnie, had patted her mouth and risen a few inches from her seat, so that the butler hustled up behind to draw back her chair. She said, ‘My lessons, Father.’
‘Yes, Minnie. Are you fully fortified?’
‘Yes, Father.’ She shook the napkin off her sticky hand and came around the table to kiss him. Minnie was short and slight and had to balance a hand on one of her father’s big shoulders in order to lean in to his face. Then she circled behind Murdo, who was sure he could feel her gaze breeze the back of his head. She touched her lips to her mother’s cheek, checked the door before it was fully ajar, checked the footman’s white-gloved hand to discourage him from opening it further. The footman audibly caught his breath, possibly because of the touch, possibly he was shocked to have forgotten one of the household’s habits, or preferences.
James Hallow had remembered that the new telephones, and telephone line, and batteries, had been in the hold of the Gustav Edda. He had been so looking forward to its installation, the Isle’s first telephone line, between Kiss Castle and its gatehouse first, then between the castle and the post office, possibly the rectory – Mr Mulberry being willing – and there would certainly be a telephone line to the factory. ‘Another factory,’ said the smirking James to Elov, who blinked and blushed. ‘At Scouse Beach, near here. A factory to extract alginate from seaweed. It’s the food of the future, you know.’
Elov nodded, as if he did know.
James’s wife Clara said that she must go and write to her friend Jane Tegner, who, considering the accident, might decide against bringing the twins to visit Minnie. She hoped they weren’t on their way already.
Rixon muttered that at least he and Elov would be excused from Minnie and the twins’ ambitious theatricals.
‘I’ll ask what Jane thinks,’ Clara said, but she didn’t get up.
Murdo did, and, as always, the butler anticipated his movement. Murdo looked over his shoulder at the man. He said thank you. He saw sympathy. ‘I’m going to speak to Rory Skilling,’ he said to James.
Clara stood. ‘And I’m going to visit the people in Mr Mulberry’s “infirmary”.’
‘I’m going there, too,’ Murdo said. ‘Eventually.’
‘Good morning, then, to both of you. Good work,’ James said. He beamed at his wife as she came gliding up the room to kiss him, and held her as she did so, his hand on the artificial fluted curve of her waist.
Jenny was waiting in the hallway with her mistress’s coat, hat, and gloves. She helped Clara into the coat, and they both turned to the big dark glass above the hall table to settle the hat. Clara rolled down the hat’s veil over her dull-skinned, handsome, worn face. Murdo saw that she was watching him in the mirror. He told her that Rory Skilling had a suspect in custody at the gatehouse. ‘The suspect jumped from the ship directly before the explosion. Before the gangplank was down.’
Clara wormed one hand into a glove, settled the leather over her wedding ring.
‘I think James underestimates the islanders’ antagonism toward himself and his ideas,’ Murdo said.
‘Antagonism?’
‘Hostility.’
‘James wasn’t on the Gustav Edda,’ said Clara. She put on her other glove and took the bag from Jenny. They left the house.
Murdo went back to the dining room, opened the door, and asked James if he
had the Gustav Edda’s cargo manifest – and if not who would have it?
‘I thought of that yesterday evening,’ James said. ‘Anticipated your interest.’
Murdo waited in the doorway. He brushed the door lightly with his shoulder so that it opened further.
‘There wasn’t anything explosive on the ship – except the coal, of course,’ James said, his brows knitted. He began to fidget with irritation. ‘For God’s sake, cousin, either come in or go out!’
‘Where is it? The manifest,’ Murdo said.
James Hallow leapt up. The blasted paper was in his office, he said. He hustled his cousin out of the doorway, closed the door firmly, gave the door handle a couple of fast turns to make sure it was firmly latched, and, taking Murdo under the elbow, led him to his office.
The room was dusted and polished, and the window glass sparkled with the lead from the ink in the newspaper used by the maid for its final polish. But there were papers everywhere, notes and plans, books stacked on chairs, and two unfinished canvases precariously sharing James’s easel. The cargo manifest and other papers pertaining to the ship had not yet worked their way under the sediment of documents. ‘I do have a copy to spare,’ James said, and gave the manifest to Murdo, who thanked him. James drew his cousin to him by his elbow, so that their hips bumped, but he didn’t look at Murdo. He said quietly that of course Murdo must satisfy himself about the accident, but he should bear in mind how little James could spare him, Southport and Scouse Beach being at a crucial stage in their development.
‘I’ll be everywhere, James,’ Murdo promised, then, amusing himself, ‘You won’t see me.’
‘Of course, of course,’ James said. He released Murdo’s arm, gave him a shying and sideways look and a slap on the back.
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