Dangerous Sea

by David Roberts

  Forrest rose to the challenge and told the table what he thought of Ford so powerfully and lucidly that Edward imagined the industrialist’s ears must be burning. Fully launched now, Forrest continued on the more general theme of the workers’ struggle, Verity looking on adoringly.

  ‘The American Workers’ Party, to which I then belonged, forced the Electric Auto-Lite Company to recognize a new union but only after two deaths. For several days in May we fought the National Guard – bare-knuckle brawls mostly – but in the end the Guardsmen got panicky and shot into the crowd. But, Mr Fairley, sir, weren’t you part of all that?’

  In his deep, sonorous voice Fairley, who had been silent since his condemnation of southern politicians, roused himself to reply. ‘I was, young man, but I had a double fight against the employers and against racism among working people who ought to have known better. Mainly, they thought we blacks were cheap labour and out to take their jobs. We had our greatest chance in 1932, Miss Browne,’ he said, aware she might not know much about the Communist Party in America. ‘We managed to put aside our squabbles and unite behind William Z. Foster and his running mate, James Ford, who was black. The Party polled a hundred thousand votes – an all-time high – but that was against twenty-three million votes cast for Roosevelt.’ He laughed wryly. ‘After that we tore ourselves apart in the usual faction fighting – Trotskyists against Stalinists against socialists – I’m sure it was the same in your country.’

  ‘Yes, but you won some fights,’ Verity said, her eyes shining.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Forrest agreed, ‘we won some fights, made our martyrs – in California, Detroit and in other cities – but, in the end, Roosevelt stole our clothes. He managed to identify himself with the worker and the union movement. The New Deal – you know about that, Miss Browne?’

  ‘Yes. Public Works – getting people back to work?’

  ‘Yep,’ Forrest said. ‘Men like our friend Senator Day hate the President’s guts worse than they hate us union people. They call FDR a Communist but, of course, he’s not that.’

  Whether it was deliberate or not, Forrest had managed to make Day a representative of the oppressing class and depersonalized his insult to Fairley. He was saying, in effect, this man is the enemy personified and so his hatred is a compliment to all who stand against racism and brutal capitalism.

  With dinner at an end, the party split up. The Captain went back to the bridge. Benyon excused himself saying that he was, after all, going back to his cabin to continue work on his lectures. Sam Forrest, Professor Dolmen and Warren Fairley went off with one of the ship’s officers to explore the engine room while Edward and the ladies – under the Chief Steward’s personal guidance – shuffled off towards the kitchens. Frank, with Benyon’s permission, slipped off to find Philly.

  Edward had been a little surprised that Verity had meekly agreed to be parted from the men in order to go and look at what might be called the distaff side of the ship. He didn’t flatter himself that it was anything to do with wanting to be with him. She was friendly enough but kept her distance, either because she only had eyes for Sam Forrest or because she was preoccupied with what she was to do in the States. For anyone of her age and political persuasion, North America was of consuming interest. This was a country which had nailed its colours to the mast, so to speak, by inscribing Emma Lazarus’s famous words on the Statue of Liberty – ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’ But this was also the land of Henry Ford and Rockefeller – the country which had virtually invented capitalism. If Stalin’s Soviet Union was one signpost to the future, was Roosevelt’s America the other? And did one have to be the wrong way or could both be ‘right’? At least these two philosophies offered alternatives to the evil of Fascism.

  The Chief Steward, responsible for all the catering, was lecturing and his facts and figures were so many and so huge they were difficult to take in – twenty thousand pounds of poultry, seventeen thousand pounds of fish, fifty thousand pounds of vegetables, fifty thousand eggs, six thousand quarts of ice cream . . .

  ‘So much ice cream?’ Jane Barclay said dreamily. ‘Sometimes in California, when the sun burns through to the bone, I imagine bathing in it.’

  She had been very subdued since the dinner incident and Edward was glad to see her becoming more cheerful. Without thinking, he put an arm round her waist as they negotiated some narrow stairs and he saw Verity watching him. He withdrew his arm.

  ‘Ah, well, I think you will be interested to see our cold rooms,’ was all the Chief Steward would say.

  The kitchens were situated immediately below the First Class restaurant and divided into the classes they serviced. It was a different world and, in their finery, they felt themselves an alien species compared with the bustling waiters, cooks and scullions. Verity felt rather embarrassed, as though she had sided with the enemy. It was ridiculous, she knew, and she tried to enjoy this insight into the ship’s commissariat. It was fascinating and she tried to make mental notes of what she saw with a view to writing an article for the New Gazette. Only Doris Zinkeisen seemed quite at ease, stopping to chat with those still working. Although dinner was over and the dining-room closed, there was still a lot to do to clear up and prepare for the next day.

  The Chief Steward continued to dazzle them with statistics and drew their attention to the fittings. They were shown electrically operated potato-peeling machines, ice cream freezers, automatic toasters, fruit juice extractors, silver-burnishing machines and many other ingenious labour-saving devices. They marvelled at the eight-oven cooking range, the grills, the bakery – there were three huge baking ovens and hundreds of oven tins. It was quite bewildering. Verity had a moment’s vision of the Titanic lying at the bottom of the ocean. All her gleaming metal must now be rusted and rotten. She shivered. That was a quarter of a century ago and ships were much safer now, she told herself.

  They had just about had enough when the Chief Steward asked again if they would like to look in the cold rooms.

  ‘It’s quite a sight,’ he urged them. ‘They have to be vast to store not only the beef and lamb carcasses but also the fruit and vegetables. Then there are separate chiller rooms for the fish, poultry and eggs – about forty-three thousand cubic feet in all. Each store room is for a different product and kept at a different temperature. There are eleven large freezer rooms in which the meat and fish are kept frozen. Look, I’ll show you. It won’t take a minute and then we’ll go back.’

  He was so proud of the ship’s facilities it seemed churlish to disappoint him so they followed like obedient children through these vast catacombs. Edward was reminded of a visit he had paid to some caves in South Africa with prehistoric paintings on the walls. Would tourists one day look at the ruins of the Queen Mary in the same way?

  Verity was reminded of something else when Jane Barclay used the word ‘mausoleum’.

  ‘That’s right! I couldn’t think what this reminded me of until you said that. Now I’ve got it! I was taken to see the Escurial outside Madrid – you know, where the Spanish kings are buried, each in their marble sarcophagus, one above the other, right round the walls. These steel freezer cabinets are just like that.’

  She shivered again – partly because of the cold and partly from some idea that there was something sinister about all this shining steel.

  ‘Now,’ said the Chief Steward, pausing, ‘Lord Edward, you may wish to come inside this room with me. It’s the coldest of the rooms. I don’t recommend the ladies enter without first returning to their cabins for coats. It’s kept well below freezing – approximately zero Fahrenheit – and no one could survive unprotected for more than an hour and, long before that, you would start suffering from hypothermia.’

  ‘So how do the cooks – or whoever – manage?’ Verity asked.

  ‘The cooks don’t come in here,’ he explained. ‘We have three butchers and they wear protective clothing, including masks, when they select the meat or fish to be unf
rozen.’

  Mrs Dolmen shivered and pulled her wrap over her shoulders. Verity, seeing that she was becoming uncomfortable, said, ‘Well, get on with it then, Edward. We’re beginning to freeze and we want to return to civilization.’

  The Chief Steward ushered him in through the heavy door, pulling it shut behind them. ‘We have to keep the temperature at the right level,’ he explained as Edward looked behind him with some alarm. The place was illuminated by bright white lights which increased the feeling of being in some nightmare arctic country. He could see animal carcasses hanging in ranks from hooks on a rail in the ceiling.

  ‘How do you move such great weights?’ he inquired.

  The Chief Steward pushed a button. Slowly, with much clanging and clanking, the carcasses began to move along the rail swinging slightly and looking for all the world like a procession of scarlet-robed prelates – except that through his steaming breath Edward could see that these were not hooded but headless.

  Then he let out a cry of horror and pointed. ‘What’s that, for God’s sake? Stop the machine.’

  The Chief Steward pushed the button again and the swinging carcasses came to a halt. Hanging from one of the hooks was the body of a man. He was quite naked. There was a rope about his neck attached to one of the metal hooks. The two men stood almost literally frozen to the spot, mouths agape at the horror before them. Edward shouted, ‘It’s Tom Barrett,’ and began to run, or rather stagger, towards the still swinging corpse. As he did so, the Chief Steward cried a warning. ‘Don’t touch! If you do, your hand may freeze to the metal. There’s nothing we can do. Come outside and I’ll summon the butcher.’

  But the butcher had already been about his business.

  5

  Verity had taken Mrs Dolmen back to her cabin in a state of shock, crying hysterically and calling for her husband. Only when he and then the doctor arrived did she feel able to leave the distraught woman. She was clearly of a very nervous disposition and Verity wondered if she ought to sympathize with Professor Dolmen for having to put up with his wife’s nerves or blame him for the state of them. Of course, it had been a great shock to all of them when they heard Edward’s shout of horror and he and the Chief Steward had burst out of the cold room but it wasn’t as if the ladies left outside had actually seen anything. The Chief Steward had gone off to fetch assistance and inform the Captain of what they had found. Edward had remained on guard outside and had at first refused to tell anyone what the matter was. At Verity’s insistence, he had finally divulged that they had discovered the body of Tom Barrett but, to her fury, he resolutely refused to let her enter the room and view the corpse nor would he comment on whether the death had been an accident or something else.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ she had said urgently. ‘Do you think I am going to run off and telephone the New Gazette – headline: Murder on the Queen Mary?’

  Edward made no answer and, with difficulty, she reined in her resentment. It occurred to her that she might indeed telephone a story to the paper, as soon as she knew what the story was. She had met Barrett only briefly but he had seemed a pleasant young man. What was Lord Benyon’s valet doing dying in the Queen Mary’s cold storage? She bit her lip. She must give no promise to Edward or anyone else which would stop her doing her journalistic duty. Now she came to think about it, it was just the sort of story Joe Weaver liked and she felt the guilt that always crept up on her when she found herself turning someone’s misfortune into ‘entertainment’ for the nation’s breakfast tables.

  Edward’s expression was grim. He was horrified at what he had seen and he feared this death would not be the last. He was itching to get back to Lord Benyon and make sure he was safe. As soon as he had left the freezer room it had struck him that, if Barrett had been killed, it must be because he was Benyon’s protector and that must mean Benyon himself was in grave danger – might, indeed, already be dead. When, at last, the doctor and several ship’s officers arrived to relieve him, Edward raced up to A Deck, all the time chanting curses to himself. He had been given a job to do and, not twelve hours into the mission, he had already failed. It was with a sigh of relief that, entering Benyon’s cabin, he saw his charge working peacefully at his desk, his pen in his hand and books and papers spread about him like feathers in a nest.

  What he saw in Edward’s face, however, made Benyon go pale. When he heard what had happened to Barrett, he took off his spectacles and buried his head in his hands.

  ‘This is too awful. The poor boy! And I happen to know that he was engaged to be married.’

  ‘But you’re all right, that’s the main thing,’ Edward gasped.

  ‘No,’ Benyon said fiercely, ‘that’s not the main thing. The main thing is a young man has been butchered for my sake . . . protecting me. It should not have happened.’

  Edward apologized. ‘I did not mean to sound heartless. I would give anything to have prevented it. It was a horrible thing and I shall never forget what I have just seen, but your mission might help us win a war. Nothing can be more important than that.’

  ‘I don’t blame you, Edward. Don’t think I was questioning your judgement. I just can’t –’

  At that moment Marcus Fern came in, looking scared. ‘The Purser telephoned me and said something bad had happened and I was to come here. Thank God you’re all right, Benyon. I thought you might have been taken ill.’

  Edward gave him a concise account of the discovery of Barrett’s body. When he had finished, the three men looked at one another in consternation. Simultaneously, they recognized they were in a trap. The Queen Mary had seemed so safe. They had been cocooned in luxury, lulled into a false sense of security, but now they realized that, behind a veneer of civilization at its most artificial, there lurked very real danger. The worst of it was that, for the next few days, there was no escape . . . no turning back. It was feasible, Edward supposed, to have a warship rendezvous with them and take off Benyon but the logistics were daunting. He wasn’t even sure exactly how someone was conveyed from one ship to another in mid-ocean. He had a vision of ropes and a man bobbing over the waves on some sort of boatswain’s chair. He shuddered. In any case, the publicity of such a manoeuvre would be just what Benyon did not want. No, they must go on but never let their man out of sight.

  ‘Thank God I brought my man, Fenton, with me. He’s totally trustworthy and with your permission, Benyon, I’ll have him sleep in my suite, in Barrett’s bed.’

  Benyon nodded so Edward went to the telephone and summoned Fenton. Verity arrived, accompanied, as always, by Sam Forrest. Edward was tempted to tell him this was no business of his and ask him to leave but he restrained himself.

  ‘Verity, could you come into the next cabin for a moment. If you will forgive me, Benyon, there’s just a couple of things I need to say to Verity in private.’

  Reluctantly, she followed him into his cabin and he shut the door after them.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ she said truculently. ‘I suppose you want to shut me up.’

  ‘How’s Mrs Dolmen?’ Edward asked, ignoring her question.

  ‘The doctor’s given her a sedative. Her husband’s with her. By the way,’ she said meaningfully, ‘if you want to know, the doctor told me about finding the body on the meat rack. Tom Barrett was murdered. Presumably, that has something to do with his being Lord Benyon’s valet. If that is what he was. There’s no good you looking like that. It’s much better that you are open with me. I haven’t discussed this with anyone except Sam but rumours are flying round the ship. You can’t keep this sort of thing secret.’

  ‘Does that mean it’s your duty to send a report through to the New Gazette? I suppose it would be quite a coup for you.’

  ‘Damn you, Edward, I’ll do what I think fit. Don’t preach at me. I knew you wanted to put pressure on me to keep quiet. So far, you’ve given me no reason why I should. I’m not promising anything.’

  ‘If I admitted to you that Barrett’s death was, almost certainly, to do
with Benyon because he wasn’t just his valet but also his bodyguard, would that satisfy you?’

  ‘Why does he need a bodyguard?’

  ‘He is going to the States on business of national importance . . . to talk to the President. I can’t tell you anything more.’

  ‘I’d worked that out for myself,’ she said shortly. ‘Why else would he be killed? It has to be because of who he was with.’

  ‘All right, but from now on anything I tell you about why Lord Benyon is going to America is confidential and not for publication.’

  ‘I don’t want to know why he’s going to the States. Anything you tell me in confidence you’ll never read in a newspaper I write for – you ought to know that by now – but the murder will be reported in newspapers on both sides of the Atlantic and I might as well report it as anyone else. At least I will be accurate.’

  ‘As long as we understand each other because, of course, I want your help . . . yours and Sam’s, but our investigation has to be confidential. Will you tell Sam the rules?’

  She took this as an apology of sorts and decided she would be forgiving.

  ‘I will.’

  They shook hands on the deal, a little embarrassed but glad to have straightened things out.

  They returned to Benyon’s cabin to find Sam, Marcus Fern and Benyon still trying to come to terms with the death. Fenton had also joined them so the suite was beginning to look overcrowded.

  ‘For it to be so ugly . . .’ Fern was saying. ‘Did it need to be so beastly?’

  ‘It’s obscene,’ Sam said vehemently, hitting his fist against the wall. ‘To kill him and then strip him and hang him on a rack of carcasses . . .!’

  ‘Horrible!’ Verity agreed. ‘I saw bad things in Spain but over there you expect people to do awful things to each other. Not here . . . not on the Queen Mary.’