It occurred to Morrison that perhaps he represented a group of people who thought of running a rival ship. Probably not a gambling ship – there would not be room for a second – but a cheap cruising ship, as Bristow had originally intended.
Morrison had wondered whether, if so, he might himself take a hand? His notes would be worth a substantial sum to anyone considering such a venture. Why should he not have a try for the money?
Obviously, if a rival to the Hellenique’s were proposed, he could have nothing to say to it. But there would be no rivalry in a scheme for poor man’s cruising. On the other hand, if the idea of another ship was being mooted for either purpose, should Stott not be informed?
Altogether it had seemed to him that either for his own benefit or Stott’s he should find out what Forrester was after.
When, therefore, the man asked whose idea the cruise was, he answered him fully.
“The result at all events is certainly good,” Forrester approved. “And very ingenious also how you people have got round the anti-gambling laws. I shouldn’t have thought it was possible, but you seem to have done it.”
“Counsel’s opinion, I understand, that was,” Morrison said, smiling. “Some barristers were asked how it could be done and this is the result.”
“A nasty one for you, Willcox,” Carrothers chuckled, glancing at the small dried-up man. “Mr Willcox is a barrister,” he explained to Morrison.
Morrison felt the temper of the group. “No names were mentioned,” he said gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes. “I feel sure I’ve given nothing away, Mr Willcox.”
“Let them go on,” Willcox answered, “and with luck we’ll make the cost of the trip out of them for slander.”
That same evening Morrison had an experience which moved him intensely: indeed, he was rather shocked when he realised to what extent.
After dinner he went out on the deck for some air. The night was surprisingly warm and balmy for the time of year and most of the passengers were somewhere in the open. There was a dance forward and the strains of the band came to him, agreeably softened by distance. Dancing by the ship’s officers was for some reason frowned on, and he therefore kept away from the festivities, sinking into a chair beside the rail overlooking the after well deck. There he sat, enjoying the luxury and the peace and dreaming in a rather somnolent way of Margot Stott.
Presently a woman passed him, stopped, and after a moment came back. He had not glanced at her, but now he did so.
“Miss Stott,” he exclaimed, springing up. “Are you enjoying the night as I am?”
She moved over beside him and stood at the rail looking out at the reflection of the moon across the tiny wavelets.
“Yes, isn’t it gorgeous! I should be dancing, but I’ve had enough of it for the moment. I’d infinitely rather look at that sea.”
“Won’t you sit down?” he begged, drawing over another chair. “There’s no draught in the shelter of this boat.”
“I must go back soon,” she returned, “but I’d like to sit here for a little. It’s so extraordinarily peaceful. And lovely. I’d no idea there was scenery like what we’ve been seeing in the British Isles. I’m afraid I said that before, but it really is marvellous.”
They chatted in a desultory way about the cruise and its itinerary, and every moment Morrison felt himself coming more and more under the girl’s spell. Then she suddenly surprised him by asking the same question as Forrester had earlier. “Whose idea was the cruise? It certainly seems to have been an astonishing success.”
Morrison told her. She listened, apparently enthralled.
“Then the gambling part was my great-uncle’s?” she said when he had done. “Neither you nor Mr Bristow had thought of it?”
“No. Bristow’s idea was simply to throw large-ship cruising open to the man of small means. He never contemplated either the gambling or doing the thing in such an expensive way. Take the flying boats, for example. They simply lap up money. Though they were my idea, it was only in response to Mr Stott’s wish for comfort and convenience regardless of cost. Bristow’s idea had been a third-class sleeper and a local tender from the nearest port.”
“And you think Mr Bristow’s plan would have paid?”
“I’m sure it would. You see this ship was built to carry four thousand passengers and we would have carried at least three: at very nearly the same cost as we’re now carrying eighteen hundred. We didn’t contemplate a private bathroom for every cabin, you see.”
She was silent for some seconds, then gave a little sigh. “Oh, dear,” she said earnestly. “How much better all that would have been! What a pity Mr Bristow’s idea was not carried out!”
Morrison was startled. “You mean?” he asked anxiously. “You don’t approve of the gambling?”
She shook her head decidedly. “No, nor the luxury. I feel it’s all wrong. Don’t you think so yourself, Mr Morrison?”
Morrison hesitated. “Well, I confess I was brought up to consider gambling an evil,” he said slowly, “but I don’t know how far that was just the feeling of the time. The rooms are very well run, of course.”
She turned in her chair and looked at him. “I believe you’re hiding what you really think because my father and my uncle are mixed up in it. You needn’t really. I know enough about it. I’ve seen –” She broke off and shrugged lightly. “Oh, well, we needn’t talk about it. But tell me more of Mr Bristow’s original idea. That would have been really good. It would have given health and pleasure to a lot of people who couldn’t afford this.”
He enlarged on the plan, to her evident approval. They chatted on for a few minutes, then she changed the subject.
“You know my stepmother and her son are coming on Thursday?”
Both words and tone were correct, and yet something in her manner suggested a feeling of regret. “I know,” he answered. “You see, I have to arrange seats for them in the plane.”
“Of course.” She paused. Then continued: “They’ll enjoy all this; the dancing and, indeed, the gaming, too.”
The suggestion was now unmistakable. Undoubtedly there was bitterness in her mind! Morrison hesitated, hoping to avoid offence. “You and they don’t see eye to eye on these matters?” he presently essayed.
“We don’t really,” she returned; “but it isn’t that.” Then, as if she had been about to say too much, she added with a smile: “I’m afraid I’m jealous. I like to have my father to myself.”
“Naturally.” Morrison was glad of something safe to say. “Have they been married long: he and your stepmother?”
“Five years. These two couldn’t come with us because Percy had flu: quite a bad attack really.”
“Hard luck.”
She answered, “Yes, wasn’t it?” in an unsympathetic voice. “Father wondered if he ought to wait for the others, but I persuaded him not to.” She glanced around. “Oh, dear, there’s Mr Redfern looking for me. I promised him this dance and I forgot all about him. I must run.”
Morrison found he had a good deal to think of that night. He has never met anyone whose presence moved him as did Margot Stott’s. On many occasions he had had what he called “affairs” with social acquaintances, waitresses, girl clerks, and so on. But all these had proved slight and passing entanglements, from which no consequences, good or evil, had resulted. This time he hoped – or feared – things were different. Not only did he feel drawn to this young woman as never to any before, but on this occasion a strange and unexpected element entered into his desire – that he should not only obtain, but deserve, her good opinion.
It looked as if she did not pull too well with her stepmother: not perhaps surprising if one considered her age. Margot he judged to be about five-and-twenty, and if her mother had been dead any considerable time, as was probable, she and her father would have become excellent friends. From their manner to one another it was obvious that they were so still. It was natural that Margot would resent losing her privileged position.
> But it was not natural that so sweet-tempered a girl should feel bitterness from such a cause. If Margot did not like her stepmother, it must be because she was an unpleasant woman. And if Margot was unsympathetic towards Percy Luff, it must be because he was an unpleasant young man. Morrison’s heart warmed still further to her, and he began to imagine her as unhappy in her home and needing sympathy and comfort, and to long for the intense joy of giving her both.
He continued all that night to halt between two opinions, at one time filled with delight that he had made this marvellous acquaintanceship, at another apprehensive that all he could possibly get out of it would be disappointment and pain.
All the same, the idea of avoiding her to save that pain never for one moment entered his head. He felt that no matter what the consequences might be, he would take what the gods seemed to be offering.
The next morning there took place another event which was to leave its mark on Morrison’s life. In itself it was entirely trifling, but later it became a source of worry and fear.
It occurred in connection with a hobby of the owner’s. John Stott was interested in archaeology and particularly in the prehistoric or very early architecture of the British Isles. For years he had been amassing notes from which he intended one day to write his magnum opus. From this point of view, the cruise had been a godsend to him, as he had been able to visit and sketch and photograph a large number of coastal ruins which would otherwise have been more difficult to reach. Usually he did the work himself, but if engaged elsewhere or not in the humour for the excursion, he was not above sending a deputy in his place. This was usually Bristow, but on occasion Morrison, who also was a fair amateur photographer, had been pressed into the service. Morrison had no particular objection to these researches – in fact, he rather enjoyed the work.
On that next morning, Stott called him to his suite, and, opening an Ordnance map of the Ullapool district, pointed to a couple of dots in an apparently inaccessible place on the northern shores of Loch Broom.
“Interesting old ruin there,” he explained. “Believed to belong to early Viking times. A man told me about it and advised me to see it. But I can’t get ashore today. I wish you’d go and get the usual stuff.”
Now, that day Morrison was busy and didn’t want to take the time off. However, he thought he could manage by letting Anderson do part of his work in addition to his own, and himself clearing up the remainder in the evening. Morrison disliked working after dinner, but it was often necessary, and when the need arose, he did it without grousing as part of his job.
He carried out his plan, explaining the matter to Anderson and getting an early boat ashore. Then with a copy of the map, he set off to find the ruin.
It proved a difficult job. There was no path to the place and the ground was rough and stony. Once he came to a stream, the bank of which he had to follow for nearly a mile before he could get across. Twice he reached peat bogs, dangerous-looking places with water shining between the coarse grasses and mossy patches of too vivid green. To get round these involved long detours, and nearly three hours had passed before, hot and tired and irritable, he reached his goal.
The ruin, when he did find it, was disappointing in the extreme. Only a few rough stones remained of what presumably had been an outer wall. With a bad grace, he photographed it from various angles, made a rough sketch with dimensions, took the orientation with a pocket compass, and finally sat down to eat his sandwiches.
He had further trouble on the return journey. In trying to avoid the bogs, he went too much towards the east, missed his way, and had a long, wearying tramp over difficult ground before regaining the road. There he found that a boat had just gone and he had to wait over an hour for the next. This, as he remembered all the work waiting to be done, still further exasperated him. Altogether it was in an unusually disgruntled frame of mind that eventually he reached the ship.
Stott was not in his cabin, and he left the roll of films with a note on his desk. The one alleviation in these photographic excursions was that Stott liked to do his own developing. Then Morrison went to his quarters, had a bath and some dinner, and settled down to his day’s work.
He found what had to be done tedious, but not difficult, and he tackled it with system and efficiency. He was congratulating himself that he would be finished by eleven when his telephone rang. Stott wanted to see him about the photographs.
Mentally consigning Stott and all his works to an uncongenial sphere, he went at once to his suite.
Stott was seated at his desk holding a strip of wet film. “Look here,” he greeted him in an indignant and complaining tone. “These photographs are no good. They only show the top of the blessed thing. There’s sure to be a lot below the ground. Why didn’t you dig away all this grass and stuff?”
For a moment Morrison saw red. Then with an effort he controlled himself. “I thought I hadn’t done too badly, sir,” he returned, “getting there at all. It’s a terrible way over very rough ground with a river to be crossed and stretches of bogland. There’s no road or path, you understand. It took me three hours to make it.”
“Not much good your making it, as you call it, if in the end you don’t get what you went out for,” Stott returned unpleasantly. “Couldn’t you have got a man with a spade for half an hour, if you weren’t up to the job yourself?”
“No, sir, I couldn’t,” Morrison answered firmly. “The place is a wilderness. I saw no one about and there were no houses anywhere near. If you want excavation done, it’ll require proper arrangements to be made beforehand.”
Stott looked at him, then shrugged contemptuously. “Oh, well, if you couldn’t, you couldn’t. But my experience in these matters is that where there’s a will, there’s a way. That’ll do. I’ll have to do with them.”
He turned away discontentedly. Morrison was fuming, but something either in his character or training prevented him from the reply which came to his lips. Without a word, he turned and left the office.
As it happened, in the alleyway he met Bristow. The latter stared at him.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “What’s happened? Had a spot of trouble?”
Morrison glanced round. He could see no one. “It’s that dirty skunk, Stott,” he declared savagely, and he went on to describe the owner’s reception of his day’s efforts.
His previous repression made him more outspoken than he might otherwise have been. He left no doubt in Bristow’s mind as to his feelings towards Stott. And yet he didn’t really convey the truth. He had no actual hatred towards the man. His ill feeling was only momentary, and with the relief of his outburst it passed away. Presently he was smilingly apologising for his grouse. Bristow, however, was sympathetic, as he also had suffered in the same way. He agreed that Stott was the “dirtiest and the meanest bloke unhung”.
The whole thing was a trifle and Morrison would quickly have forgotten it, had it not been that, looking round again, he saw a figure shuffling away. It was Pointer, a steward whom he believed he had made an enemy of when he had reprimanded him for not properly cleaning his office. The man’s lips were curved into an ugly smile and his whole expression indicated mischief. Instantly Morrison realised that his outburst had been overheard.
“There’s that blighter Pointer,” he said in a lower tone. “He’s a bad egg and I bet he’s heard all I said.”
Bristow shrugged. “What matter if he did?” he returned. “You said nothing to harm anyone.”
All the same, as Morrison thought over the encounter, he realised that he had spoken unwisely. The look in Pointer’s face made him feel sorry he had let himself go. He was not exactly uneasy, but he wished he had been more careful.
8
PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
Next day the ship lay off the Gairloch, a party going ashore for a drive through the fine scenery of the surrounding mountains. Morrison stayed aboard with the idea of clearing off arrears of work, though actually thoughts of Margot Stott filled his mind to such an ext
ent that the arrears grew greater instead of less.
That she was unhappy in her home life he was now convinced, and while all his sympathy went out to her, he found in the belief the dawn of a wonderful hope. If it were true, she would naturally look more favourably on matrimony: the wrench of leaving home would be less. But if she wished to marry, was there any reason why he might not be the lucky man? His present social position was admittedly beneath hers, but he was not going to remain a transport officer forever. He had been brought up in circumstances like her own and had been properly educated. Though he had not actually taken his degree, he had at least been to a good school and to Cambridge, and he could hold his own with people of her world. Of course, he hadn’t a millionaire for a great-uncle, but Wyndham Stott didn’t seem more than comfortably off, and when his own 10 percent of the cruise net profits materialised, he would be fairly well-to-do himself.
He wished desperately that he could see more of her. She was invariably friendly, and they were on intimate enough terms considering the number of times they had met, but she was so much taken up with her father and the other passengers that only at odd moments could he get a glimpse of her.
Then that very afternoon something happened which completely altered the terms on which they had previously been, and left them with a new sympathy and regard.
As he was dreaming over his desk at about the time at which thoughts of a cup of tea begin to enter the mind, his telephone bell rang. His surprise and pleasure were great when he heard Margot’s voice, though not as great as when he received her message.
“Are you very busy, Mr Morrison?” she asked.
He explained with fervour that he was only working on routine matters and was quite free for anything she might desire.
“Then I’d be greatly obliged if you could meet me in the library in ten minutes.”
His heart was beating a good deal more rapidly as he replaced the receiver. The rendezvous was suggestive. The library was in a corner of what had been the tourist smoking room and at this hour it was closed. On such a lovely day the place would be deserted.
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