‘Yes, he is one of our small band of trained marksmen.’
‘Well, that sounds all right. Now, you said you had a list of the First Class passengers?’
‘Yes. It may not be quite complete. There are changes right up to the moment the ship sails but here it is.’
Edward was handed a file containing some twenty-five sheets of names. ‘It’s all right,’ Ferguson said smiling. ‘You don’t have to read this now. It’s for you to keep and refer to as and when. I might say, the Atlantic crossing ought to be entertaining. Cunard like to have film stars and the like on board. It brings useful publicity. There are some famous names on the list like the stage magician, Jasper Maskelyne. Have you ever seen him? I saw him at the Palladium once. Quite extraordinary – he cut this girl in half in front of our very eyes . . .’ He noticed Edward looking at him in amusement, stopped and then went on more calmly, ‘Apparently entertainers like Maskelyne get a free trip across to the States in return for doing a show. There’s also the black American singer and actor, Warren Fairley, and his new wife, Jane Barclay.’
‘Of course! Fairley’s been playing Othello at the Haymarket,’ Edward said, as excited at the opportunity of meeting him as Ferguson had been about Maskelyne. ‘I gather it was quite a sensation. The reviews were ecstatic. I meant to see it but because of . . . you know, having to dash off to Spain, I never did. Jane Barclay’s some sort of starlet, isn’t she?’
‘Fairley met her on the last film he made. They were married immediately after it was finished – that was about eighteen months ago.’
‘I see you have been doing your homework! Isn’t Fairley a Communist?’
‘He is and, as you can imagine, a black man who is also a Red married to a white girl has a rough ride in the States. Too colourful, if you will pardon the pun. It’s one of the reasons he wanted to come and live in England. He gets too much harassment in the States from people who should know better. He only goes back to make films. There’s one character who isn’t going to like sharing First Class with him – George Earle Day. Ever heard of him?’
Edward looked blank.
‘He’s Senator Day from South Carolina and he doesn’t like the English, Jews or anybody with a black skin. He hates Fairley worse than most. Their paths have crossed on several occasions. The last time, Fairley was making a speech against segregation in the city of Anderson and Day had him locked in the cells for a night. It caused an outcry in the press.’
‘Hmm, he sounds just the fellow to make for an interesting trip. By the way, if he doesn’t like the English, what’s he been doing in London?’
‘He’s been . . . how shall I put it? . . . oiling a few wheels. He’s hoping to be made ambassador to the Court of St James. Ambassador Bingham – a good man and a friend to Britain – has Hodgkin’s disease and I am sorry to say is unlikely to recover.’
‘Senator Day’s a friend of Roosevelt?’
‘Hard to say. More likely FDR wants him out of Washington.’
‘But surely London is an important posting?’
‘Yes, and at such a crucial time for us it could be awkward having an ambassador of Day’s persuasion. He’s an isolationist who believes England’s ripe for Herr Hitler’s picking. And he may be right at that,’ Ferguson added grimly.
‘Anyone else?’
‘You’ll find in that file potted biographies of anyone who is anyone. Oh, one more person to look out for is Bernard Hunt, the art historian and dealer. We have our suspicions of him.’
‘What sort of suspicions?’
‘We think he’s probably a crook so don’t buy any pictures off him.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ Edward grinned.
3
As they drew up on the dockside and recognized the three black-and-red-ringed funnels of the Cunard Line, the sheer size of the Queen Mary silenced even Verity who had been talking all the way from London. Edward had crossed the Atlantic on the Normandie the previous year and now made every effort to act as if he was used to great liners but it was no good and he was soon swapping statistics with Sam Forrest, like boys admiring a new motor car.
‘I read somewhere that if she was stood on her bows she would be taller than the Eiffel Tower,’ Edward said.
‘I guess she’ll take the Blue Riband off the Normandie.’
‘I’m sure she will. She can make thirty knots, or so they say. They deliberately made her bigger and faster than the Norman-die, just for the hell of it.’
Verity piped up, ‘I heard a funny story. Apparently, they were going to call her the Queen Victoria but the King – I mean George V, of course – misunderstood when Cunard’s chairman asked permission to name it after a great queen and said Queen Mary would be delighted!’
They looked around for Lord Benyon’s party which included Frank, who had already taken on his role as chief bag carrier and dogsbody, but there was no sign of them. The dockside was seething with people but it was ordered chaos. Each of the two thousand passengers seemed to have brought along their friends and relations to see them off. The smartly uniformed officials, clipboards at the ready, marshalled each passenger according to class and directed them to their designated gangway. Fenton summoned porters, who disappeared with the luggage, and then took their tickets for stamping, leaving Edward, Sam Forrest and Verity to go on board. Edward had been in two minds whether or not to take Fenton. He elicited from Ferguson that the government was not prepared to pay for his ticket. He decided finally it was worth fifty pounds to have Fenton by his side. In the unlikely event of there being any trouble, he was a good man to have around and anyway, damn it, if he was to travel in style he needed his valet.
As they crossed the covered gangplank into the belly of the ship, Edward, giving way to fancy, thought of it as an umbilical cord. But, oddly, they were returning into a kind of luxurious womb, not leaving it. They would have no responsibilities on board except to enjoy themselves – or rather that was true of most of the passengers. He had the responsibility of keeping Lord Benyon alive for the duration of the voyage. Surely, that ought to be possible, he told himself.
Verity was unable to restrain her excitement as she went on board. Edward noticed Forrest watching her with an affectionate smile and, when he put his arm round her, he felt the familiar stab of jealousy. On their way down to Southampton in the Lagonda, Edward had resolved to seize the opportunity provided by being closeted with Verity for almost a week to ask her to marry him. Wasn’t it said that shipboard romance was almost compulsory? Verity’s excitement and evident good humour made him feel optimistic but he wished Sam Forrest had been a little less good-looking, that his chin was a little less rugged and his smile a little less engaging. He was young too – about Verity’s age he guessed, maybe a year or two younger, say twenty-five or six – and he made Edward feel old.
Cunard had decided for some reason to call First Class Cabin Class but, whatever its name, it was the height of luxury. When Verity was shown into her stateroom by an obsequious steward, the first thing she noticed was the white telephone beside her berth and she let out a squeak of excitement. ‘Can we really telephone from our cabins or is it just so we can telephone other cabins?’
‘No, madam. You can use it to ring another cabin, of course, but you can telephone almost anywhere in the world. There is a seven-hundred-line switchboard and five radio operators are on duty twenty-four hours a day. Shall I ask your stewardess to unpack for you?’
Verity gulped. It was true she had rushed round to Hartnell’s for a new white linen suit and an evening dress – apparently blues, greens and yellows were the fashion – but she wasn’t sure she wanted a strange woman inspecting her lingerie and finding it wanting. She glanced at the steward, who smiled as if he read her thoughts, and that decided her. She wasn’t going to be ashamed of anything. With a tilt of her chin, familiar to all her friends, she said coolly, ‘That would be kind.’
Sam Forrest, who had the cabin next to her, put his head round the door. ‘May I com
e in?’ he inquired, coming in anyway. ‘Isn’t this the tops, Miss Browne?’
‘Sam, if we’re going to be on a boat for a week – even a boat as big as this – you’ve got to stop calling me “Miss Browne”.’
‘Really? I appreciate that, and you can go on calling me Sam.’ He spread his hands out. ‘It gives me a real drive playing at being a Vanderbilt. I came over on a crate which I guess don’t amount to a “hill o’beans”, as my pop would say, compared with this. I just hope none of my folks get to hear about all this and think I need taking down a peg or two. Come and see my cabin. I even got a “barth”, as you English call it. Oh, and by the way, this isn’t a boat, Verity, it’s a ship.’
The telephone rang, making Verity jump. She lifted the receiver gingerly. ‘Verity, is that you? It’s me . . . Edward. You’re on B Deck, aren’t you? You’ve got to come up to A Deck and see where I’ve ended up. You’ll be green with envy.’
‘I doubt that but we’ll come anyway.’
Edward wondered sourly if it was always going to be ‘we’ and if he would ever be able to prise Verity from Sam Forrest’s side.
Lord Benyon had been allotted three of the eight special staterooms on A Deck. In fact, these were suites, each comprising a bedroom, sitting-room and bathroom. In the second suite, which Edward shared with Barrett, the sitting-room had been turned into a bedroom so that Barrett could be on hand in any emergency. Normally, servants had cabins in Tourist Class, where Fenton was lodged. Benyon had a double bed and, besides the usual furniture, there was a writing table and two easy chairs so that he could work as comfortably as if he were in his study at home.
Fenton appeared. He had dealt with all the paperwork, seen the luggage stowed and garaged the Lagonda to await their return. At that moment Verity and Sam Forrest knocked on the door and Fenton let them in.
‘Fenton’s arranged everything, V. All the trunks . . . everything. He’s quite indispensable.’
‘You’re a marvel. Thank you so much. Isn’t he a marvel, Sam?’
‘Very much so. Thank you, Mr Fenton.’
‘It’s a pleasure, sir . . . miss.’
Sam seemed a shade embarrassed. He had never had a valet and had no idea how he should treat the man. When Fenton turned his back, he asked Verity, in a dumb show, if he should tip him. Verity shook her head vigorously. She didn’t approve of valets on principle and she knew Fenton didn’t approve of her on some contradictory principle which she had never properly understood, but she knew enough to sense that he would be insulted by being offered a tip.
‘Gosh, this is luxury!’ Verity said, opening a cupboard. ‘Why, there’s even a bar. Do we have a bar, Sam?’
‘No booze in my cabin. I guess we aren’t important after all.’
‘Nor is Edward. It’s Lord Benyon who has to be coddled. Where is he, anyway? Oughtn’t he to be here?’
‘I don’t suppose he’ll be long,’ Edward said, but a small, hard nut of unease made his stomach contract.
An hour passed exploring their new home and marvelling as each new wonder revealed itself. At last, hooters sounded and instructions were given over loud hailers for visitors to make their way to the exits. Final tearful embraces and hearty handshakes ensued.
‘Let’s go on deck,’ Edward suggested. ‘What time have you, V? I wish Benyon wasn’t leaving it so late.’
He was getting seriously worried. Was he going to have the embarrassment of sailing across the Atlantic without the man he was supposed to be protecting? They all trooped on deck to join the throng of passengers waving to their friends on the dock and shouting inaudible farewells. Edward scanned the quayside, his hand to his forehead. He noticed that some of the gangways were already being removed. He was just wondering if he ought to try and see the Captain and demand the ship be held for the latecomers when there was a blaring of horns and a Rolls-Royce swung on to the dock. It came to an abrupt halt by one of the gangways. Frank tumbled out shouting for porters. The car was immediately surrounded by ship’s officers and stewards who obscured Edward’s view. When the crowd parted, he could see Benyon, aided by Barrett and followed by a tall, red-haired man he assumed must be Marcus Fern, being ushered up the gangway. Fretting that Frank was not with them, he made to go down to the lower deck to greet them. As he did so, Verity called to him and he went back to the rail. He saw his nephew still on the dockside with two officials. They were checking which suitcases were to go in the hold and which were to be sent to the cabin. Looking up at the ship, Frank caught sight of his uncle and gave him a cheery wave. Then he picked up two heavy-looking briefcases and loped up the gangway.
Edward breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Damn the boy! He would be late for his own funeral,’ he muttered to himself and then wished he hadn’t.
Half an hour later, her sirens sounding urgently, the Queen Mary was nudged away from the quay by blunt-nosed tugs, and turned her sleek black bows toward Southampton Water.
Verity and Edward began to make their way to Benyon’s suite. A slim, anxious-looking man pushed past them through heavy swing doors towards the dining-room.
‘Did you see who that was, V?’ Edward said, lighting a cigarette.
‘No, who was it?’
‘Henry Hall.’ Verity still looked puzzled. ‘You know, the dance-band leader. He’s on the wireless . . . Don’t worry about it. You’ve obviously been out of the country too long.’
When they reached Lord Benyon’s stateroom, Frank was there piling up suitcases. He kissed Verity and shook his uncle’s hand. ‘How’s he shaping up?’ Edward inquired of Benyon, trying not to sound like a mother hen.
‘He’s been invaluable. We had a smashed windscreen which delayed us. I hope you weren’t worried.’
‘I was rather. Mr Fern . . .?’
‘I’m so sorry. I was thinking you two knew each other. Marcus, may I introduce Lord Edward Corinth. Edward . . . Marcus Fern, one of the ablest men in the City and a valued friend.’
Fern held up his hand. ‘Please, Benyon. If we’re not going to quarrel, you’re going to have to stop flattering me. There are many abler men in the City than I, Lord Edward. By the way, I’ve been hearing all about you. Your nephew seems to admire you. I can’t think how you do it. My sister’s son thinks I’m a terrible bore, and perhaps I am.’
Edward smiled. ‘You have the suite next to this, isn’t that right? Then there’s Barrett and me on the other side.’
’Yes, Benyon won’t escape,’ Fern said with a grin.
Edward glanced behind him. Verity was talking to Benyon – they seemed to have a real rapport. He was praising her book and she was blushing prettily.
‘Will you excuse me for a minute, Fern? I need to have a word with my nephew. Frank, come into my cabin for a moment, will you?’
Frank followed his uncle obediently into the next cabin and Edward asked him to close the door behind him.
‘Yes, Uncle? Did you want to say something?’
‘I’m glad to see you’re getting on so well with Lord Benyon.’
‘Yes. I like him enormously. I think I’m going to be an economist.’
Edward repressed a smile. ‘What made you so late? I was getting worried.’ He tapped his pocket and fetched out his silver cigarette case. ‘I thought you were going to miss the boat, literally, or were you just trying to “make an entrance”?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that. We were late starting – some last-minute meeting of Mr Fern’s overran. Then, on the way down, someone tried to stop us.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Edward looked up, the lighter in his hand half-way to the cigarette in his mouth. He removed the cigarette so he could speak more clearly. ‘Who tried to stop you?’
‘Can I have a cigarette?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘I hope you’re not going to treat me like a child.’
‘No, but . . . anyway, what happened? Who tried to stop you?’
‘We were bowling along just outside Micheldever . . . it’s a go
od road and we were going quite fast when there was a bang. The windscreen shattered and I thought a stone had come up from the road. Fortunately, Bannister, Lord Benyon’s chauffeur, is very good. He brought the car to a halt at the side of the road even though he couldn’t see a thing. God knows what would have happened if we had careered across the road into the oncoming traffic.’
‘Golly! Was it a stone?’
‘No. It was a bullet. I’ve got it here. I thought you’d like to see it. It went between Barrett and the chauffeur.’ He passed Edward a metal object, flattened and misshapen but definitely a bullet. ‘A .303, I’d say. What do you think?’
‘Good Lord. Frank, I’m horrified. What did you do – call the police?’
‘I wanted to, of course, but Benyon said we shouldn’t. He said we’d get delayed and that was exactly what they wanted. I asked who “they” were and he said to ask you.’
‘I’m not sure I can tell you.’
‘I say, if I’m going to have people shoot at me, I think it’s only fair I know what it’s all about. I’m not a rabbit, you know. It would have been safer if you’d jolly well left me in Spain.’
‘Damn and blast! Your mother would kill me if she knew I had put you in danger,’ Edward exclaimed, rather unfortunately in the circumstances. He considered for a moment. ‘All I can say is that Lord Benyon is due to have a very important meeting with President Roosevelt in Washington. It’s top secret but it looks as though not secret enough.’
‘And who wants to stop this meeting taking place? The Nazis?’
‘Yes, if you must know, Nazis.’
‘Gosh! How absolutely ripping.’
‘Don’t be an ass, Frank. This is serious, not some schoolboy prank.’
‘Sorry, Uncle.’ Frank sounded crushed. ‘So we need to keep our eyes open?’
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