Dangerous Sea

by David Roberts

  Seeing Edward’s eyes on him, Fairley leant over the table. ‘ “Who from my cabin tempted me to walk? . . . Methought that Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling, struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, into the tumbling billows of the main. Lord, Lord! methought what pain it was to drown . . .” ’

  ‘Richard III?’

  ‘Yes. I never played it.’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Why do you say that, Lord Edward? White men “black-up” to play Othello.’

  ‘Yes, but you could hardly “white-up”!’

  ‘I should not need to,’ Fairley said with disdain. ‘Shakespeare calls on the imagination of all of us in the audience. “On your imaginary forces work . . .” ’

  ‘I had never thought like that but, of course, you are right.’

  ‘But you cannot see the audience accepting a black Henry V?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor I, not in our lifetime anyway, but one day . . .’

  ‘“The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder”,’ Edward quoted.

  ‘I see you know your Henry V,’ Fairley said approvingly, ‘and ’tis true, the ocean is perilous. Are you trying to decide if I murdered Senator Day?’

  Edward, taken aback by this shrewd guess, said hurriedly, ‘That would be absurd.’

  ‘Not totally, I hated him and wanted him dead. He was my enemy. This Senate Committee he was setting up with his friend, Senator Dies, to root out un-American activities is aimed at me and people like me.’

  Edward looked at him searchingly. ‘But you didn’t kill him?’

  ‘I didn’t, but someone did . . . someone who will also deny it.’

  ‘But he will be a liar, and I don’t believe you are a liar.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Edward,’ Fairley said in amusement. ‘But remember, actors are liars by profession.’

  Edward shook himself mentally. What on earth was he thinking about? Senator Day might have been killed by anyone in First Class. There was no reason to pick on one of the passengers he happened to know. Anyone could have slipped away from watching the race – or, like Lord Benyon, not bothered to come up on deck – and done the deed. At least Major Cranton was not in the frame. He had been very much in evidence before and during the race, making loud, would-be jocular remarks about the contestants. Marcus Fern had discovered the body so he was, by definition, the main suspect but a clever man would hardly be found with the corpse – unless it was some sort of double bluff.

  Edward had been studying the passenger list Ferguson had given him and there was one particular passenger who interested him. But, what did it matter? Edward had to remind himself that his purpose was not to track down Day’s killer but to keep Lord Benyon safe. His only interest in finding the Senator’s murderer was if the killer also had Benyon on his list. On the face of it, he didn’t think it likely. There was nothing to tie the two men together. Physically, they were chalk and cheese. It was impossible for the Senator to have been mistaken for Benyon. Day was a shambling bear of a man and Benyon a frail wisp by comparison. He sighed. There was one thing he did mean to do: telephone Major Ferguson and give him a brief, if necessarily guarded, account of what had happened to Senator Day. The storm had made communication with the outside world virtually impossible but, with the Captain’s permission, he ought now to be able to speak to London.

  When dinner ended – a much better meal than they had had in the main dining-room – they went their separate ways. Edward was on duty and he accompanied Benyon back to the cabin and put him to bed. He was still exhausted by the storm and his violent seasickness. Edward’s knee was hurting. He cursed himself for being a fool – pitting himself against youth – but the damage had been done and he knew he needed to rest it if he was to be able to walk properly when they reached New York. The doctor had given him anti-inflammatory pills and there was nothing else anyone could do for him. Inevitably, Frank went off with the twins to put their mother to bed – she was complaining of one of her headaches – and then, no doubt, to dance the night away. He admired the boy’s energy but wondered if it had really been worth bringing him if all he did was philander with the first pretty girl he saw.

  Verity and Sam Forrest went off together, to do what Edward did not know nor care to imagine. It was annoying, though, because he wanted to talk things over with her. In the past, her caustic wit and down-to-earth assessment of the facts had been of considerable help to him when he was trying to puzzle something out but tonight she had other priorities.

  ‘By the way,’ Sam said, as they got up from dinner, ‘I’ve got some brandy in my cabin. Why don’t we . . .?’

  Verity looked at him suspiciously but his face was as innocent as a babe’s. She was on the point of saying she didn’t drink brandy when – for no reason other than that she was bored and rather depressed – she said, ‘All right, just a nightcap.’

  Sam lay sprawled on the bed, his toothglass – half-full of brandy – cupped in his hands. He had taken off his jacket and loosened his collar. Verity was slumped in the armchair, looking at him intently. She had thought she knew him but now decided she didn’t. She knew certain things about him. He was a good-looking American boy with all the optimism and charm of youth. He was a good speaker – she had heard him turn potentially ugly meetings into enthusiastic support for Anglo-American labour unity. Despite his youth, he was the chosen representative of one of the most powerful labour leaders in the United States. He had a great future and she liked men with drive. But . . . there was a ‘but’ . . . he did not quite have Edward’s intelligence and certainly not his education. There was something a little callow about him, she decided.

  ‘What do you think about all this?’ Sam asked.

  ‘The murder?’

  ‘Yes – the murder. What else?’

  ‘Good riddance, I suppose. He had enemies. He seemed to like having enemies.’

  ‘I was one, you know.’

  ‘He hated Communists and unions, so no doubt he hated you.’

  ‘That’s so, but me in particular.’

  ‘What had you ever done to him?’

  ‘It was what I wouldn’t do. He had interests in Tennessee – mines, power . . . he had a finger in many pies. He asked me to use my influence with my union to see there were no strikes.’

  ‘But that’s absurd! Why should he think you would do that?’

  ‘He tried to blackmail me.’

  ‘But you can’t be blackmailed if you haven’t done anything wrong.’

  Sam bit his lip. ‘He said he would tell the authorities I was a Communist.’

  ‘But you’re not a Communist.’

  ‘No, but they know I “consort” with Communists.’

  ‘And that’s so bad?’

  ‘It would mark me for life. In my country, being a Communist makes you an outcast. It’s like being a member of a particular religion. You have to be prepared to give up everything for the cause.’

  ‘That’s what it’s like in England.’

  ‘Not as bad,’ he said flatly. ‘He said I slept with Communists – or at least with one Communist.’

  Verity narrowed her eyes. ‘But you don’t.’

  ‘No, I don’t, but I would like to.’

  Verity was silent for a moment and took a sip of her brandy. ‘Well, I suppose if you are going to be accused of sleeping with the enemy, then you better had.’

  She got up from her chair, put the glass down on the dressing-table and began to unzip her dress – a little black dress which rode high on her legs and which she knew made her look rather taller than she actually was. In Spain, her face had become almost gaunt but, since her return, she had put on a little flesh and the weariness had gone out of her. Her skin glowed – the sea air seemed to do it good – and the black marks beneath her eyes had vanished. Sam watched from the bed, unmoving, as she kicked off her shoes and stepped out of her dress. It was hot in the cabin and bead marks of sweat stood out on her forehead and upper lip.

&nbs
p; ‘Well, do I have to do this all on my own?’

  Sam came to life, getting off the bed, upsetting a little of his brandy as he did so. He took the girl in his arms and kissed her as he had imagined kissing her all those weeks they had trailed round English provincial towns together. He released her and took off his shirt, studs bursting in all directions. Then he took off his shoes and socks.

  ‘Why do men look so ridiculous in their socks?’ he said, trying to sound relaxed but failing.

  ‘And girls in camiknickers?’

  Sam gulped and found himself at a loss for words. After a minute or two standing in the middle of the cabin kissing, Verity said, ‘Have you got a . . . you know?’

  ‘What? Oh, one of those. I believe I have.’

  It was so difficult for the man, he thought. It didn’t do to look calculating but without a French letter . . . He opened the drawer of the table beside his bed and, over his shoulder, Verity saw a photograph with the Durex on top of it.

  ‘Whose photo is it?’

  ‘Just a snapshot,’ he said hurriedly.

  There was something in his voice which made Verity reach over and take it before he could shut the drawer. ‘You don’t mind me looking, do you?’

  The camera had caught the pretty girl in her gingham dress looking at the baby in her arms with that combination of bewilderment and ecstasy which marks out a young mother with her firstborn.

  ‘It’s your wife and baby, isn’t it?’

  ‘I . . . yes, but . . .’

  Verity raised her hand and slapped him hard on the side of his face.

  ‘But you never asked me,’ he said miserably. And it was true. In all the weeks she had known him, she had never asked if he were married. Somehow, she had assumed he was unattached. He had certainly never mentioned a wife. She felt the greatest fool. Of course a man like Sam Forrest would be married. Wasn’t every man she had ever desired married?

  Not quite, she reminded herself. Not quite . . .

  10

  The next morning the sun shone, the sea was lapis lazuli and the long chairs were soon filled with women coating themselves in Nurona sun-tan cream. Even Lord Benyon ventured on to the sun deck and sat, shrouded in a rug, alongside Marcus Fern. The two men were discussing the speech he was to make to the New York business community.

  Verity could not resist interrupting them to ask what he was going to say about the state of Britain. ‘Will you talk about the way in which our industry is owned by the rich, worked by the poor and profits the shareholder? Will you tell them how the armaments manufacturers are getting fat on selling arms to the Fascists? Will you tell them about the stinking poverty of our great cities? Will you tell them how our great banks are run by men who think only of profit and never of principle? I imagine not.’

  ‘No, I will not, my dear, because to do so would make us look as though we were still living in Dickens’ England. Besides, it isn’t true – not all of it, anyway. I will tell them I travelled across the Atlantic in one of the greatest ships ever built, and built in England. I will tell them they must open their markets to our goods and invest in our industry. I will tell them we need their economic aid to keep the peace in troubled times.’

  ‘All very well,’ Verity said belligerently, folding her hands over her chest, ‘but you know as well as I do that, until industry is state-owned, we will always be at the mercy of the money-men and the profiteers.’

  Keeping his temper, Benyon replied, ‘I agree with you that the state should have a role in industry. It should ensure our coal mines and our steel works are properly managed and the workers properly rewarded for their work. It should see that profits are fairly distributed but government has neither the expertise nor the personnel to run industry. You may not know it but, in Russia, state-owned industry is proving a catastrophe. Bureaucracy and corruption are ruining it.’

  ‘Why corruption?’

  ‘Because the desire to make money is universal and, if the state tries to stifle that urge, it will find another outlet – corruption, back-street profit, fiddles and bribes.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Show me your evidence.’

  ‘And the collective farms are leading the Soviet Union towards a famine of unimaginable horror.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Verity repeated. ‘At least Stalin has given his country full employment.’ It was all she could manage before stumping off in a worse temper than before.

  ‘Miss Browne seems upset,’ Marcus Fern said, as the two men resumed their work. ‘I am almost sad that the young are so serious. In my day, they would be interested only in dancing and the pleasures of flirtation.’

  ‘Marcus! I wouldn’t have believed you were ever flirtatious.’

  ‘Stop it, Benyon! Now, what were we saying . . .’

  Benyon took up his pen and, poised to return to his notes, said with a smile, ‘In any case, I think Miss Browne’s bad temper is derived from exactly that – love or disappointment in love. Have you not noticed? Mr Forrest looks almost as down in the dumps as Miss Browne. I would surmise a lovers’ tiff.’

  Edward, too, had noticed that Sam and Verity were no longer on speaking terms and he rebuked himself for being pleased. He was curious as to what had happened to make them quarrel but too wise to make any direct inquiries. He was leaning over the rail, smoking a gasper and resting his bad leg, when he became aware of some sort of commotion further down the deck. Being one of those people constitutionally unable to ignore a rumpus, he hobbled towards it, leaning on a crutch the doctor had lent him. He saw that it was Doris Zinkeisen and she was screaming at the Purser.

  As she saw Edward approaching, she turned her attention to him. ‘My picture . . . the mural . . . it’s been attacked . . . vandalized.’

  She was weeping and her mascara had smudged her eyes so she looked both absurd and pathetic. Edward took her by the arm and said, ‘Someone has damaged your picture? How frightful. Who would do such a thing? Show me . . . please.’

  To the Purser’s relief, Edward’s obvious concern calmed her and the three of them made their way to the Verandah Grill. They were joined by Verity and Bernard Hunt who, when they heard what had happened, were as outraged as Edward and this, too, seemed to comfort the artist.

  Standing in front of the mural, Verity expressed Edward’s own thought. ‘If Senator Day wasn’t dead, I might have thought this was his work.’

  Someone had thrown black paint over the mural, obscuring much of the carnival scene. The lion tamer had disappeared and so had the dancing girls. As he peered at the damage Edward let out a cry. The bare-breasted black girl cavorting behind the lion had been cut with some sort of knife. It was a savage attack and all of them standing in front of the picture were shocked into silence.

  ‘How disgusting!’ Bernard Hunt exclaimed, clutching one of Doris’s hands. ‘I am so sorry, my dear. It’s too horrible but . . .’ he went close to the mural to examine the damage, ‘it’s mostly superficial. I have a friend in New York who restores pictures for the National Gallery in Washington. I will get him to look at this as soon as we dock. My poor darling, this is an attack on all of us who love art.’

  Doris’s sobbing began to abate.

  ‘This is the work of an unbalanced mind. I’m sorry, Miss Zinkeisen, but there can be no doubt about it: the attack on your picture is a sort of mad censorship. Someone among us feels threatened by bare female flesh and this black girl in particular. It’s quite horrible, as Hunt says, but let’s hope he’s right and it can be repaired. What we have to hope is that whoever did it doesn’t attack the real thing.’

  ‘What do you mean, Edward?’ Verity said. ‘There are no black women on board, as far as I know.’

  ‘No, but there is a black man and there are plenty of women. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.’

  The Purser had gone off to report this latest disaster to Captain Peel. As Edward continued to examine the painting, he arrived and, pushing Edward to one side almost rudely, he stared at
it uncomprehendingly.

  Edward asked the Purser who had discovered the damage.

  ‘The cleaners at six o’clock this morning. As you know, the Verandah turns itself into a nightclub after dinner. At one o’clock it closes and the waiters do some basic tidying up. Then the cleaners come very early to do all the public rooms before seven thirty.’

  ‘I see. Is the Verandah Grill locked at night?’

  ‘No. None of the public rooms are locked at night.’

  In exasperation the Captain said, ‘There’s no question of shutting the Grill.’ He turned to the Purser. ‘You had better get the carpenters to board over the damage. Miss Zinkeisen,’ the Captain went on, ‘I am horrified by what has been done to your work and I promise you it will be repaired as soon as possible.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’ She was calmer now. ‘Bernard . . . Mr Hunt says he will arrange to have an expert restorer come on board at New York and, of course, I can repaint where I have to. But who could do such a thing?’

  ‘It seems there must be a madman among us,’ was all the Captain could say.

  ‘V, have you got a moment? I’d like to talk this over if you have time.’

  Verity was pleased to have something to occupy her. She was determined, as far as possible, to keep out of Sam’s way and a confabulation with Edward was a legitimate excuse to absent herself a while. It was awkward Sam having the cabin next to hers. She would keep on bumping into him and, really, there was nothing she wanted to say to him. She had been a fool. She had believed that he was unattached – a carefree young man, very much to her taste, sharing many of her interests and concerns. Suddenly, he had revealed himself to be a cheat and a liar – just like all the other men she had ever slept with – all two of them. She smiled inwardly. She didn’t see why she should blame herself. She wasn’t promiscuous. There had been David Griffiths-Jones – her first lover – and Ben Belasco, the novelist, whom she had met in Spain. That was all. After all, she was twenty-six – soon to be twenty-seven. Damn it, she was almost a virgin. Now Edward, he had . . .