Dangerous Sea

by David Roberts

  ‘Of whom?’

  ‘How do I know? Me, perhaps. It would be a nice gesture.’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘What shall I do?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Well, I think you should talk to Perry Roosevelt.’

  ‘But you said you’d ask him about –’

  ‘Not about why he didn’t like Day. Just try and find out something about the Roosevelts as a family – their background and so on. You really know nothing.’

  ‘I do. When we first met, we had a sort of mutual catechism. He asked me about my family and I asked him about his. Not that it really amounted to much, I suppose,’ he added, wrinkling his brow. ‘But I didn’t like it at the time. I hate talking about my people.’

  ‘We do embarrass you, I realize,’ Edward smiled, ‘but that’s the purpose of relations.’ Frank opened his mouth to protest but Edward had something else to say. ‘I think you will find there’s something important he hasn’t told you, Frank.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘About Philly.’

  ‘About Philly?’ Frank echoed.

  ‘Your inamorata,’ Edward said drily.

  Frank looked at his uncle in dismay.

  As Edward limped off to find Jane Barclay he met the Purser, who said the Captain would be grateful for a word and asked him to go on to the bridge.

  By the time he had negotiated the various steps and stairs to the wheelhouse, Edward’s gammy leg was hurting badly and he was cursing under his breath with a fluency and command of the vernacular which might have impressed his nephew, had he heard him. However, the effort was worthwhile. Standing on the bridge of the Queen Mary, surrounded by smartly uniformed officers, was, he imagined, rather like being with the gods on top of Mount Olympus. The views were vast and his eye, having nowhere to rest except on wave after wave cresting in lacy foam as the great ship cleaved the water, reverted to the shining equipment directly in front of him. There were all sorts of dials and wheels, mostly cased in brass, and he suddenly felt what it must be like to be an illiterate. He knew roughly what he was looking at but none of it made any sense to him.

  As he watched, fascinated and humbled by the complexity of the gadgets and dials which were being operated with so much confidence and efficiency, he realized how cushioned the passengers were against the reality of their environment. They were little more aware of what it means to be at sea than babies in a perambulator. The Captain was deep in conversation with his first officer but, catching sight of Edward, he came over with a smile at his evident awe.

  ‘It is remarkable, isn’t it, Lord Edward? The engines are, of course, the beating heart of our great ship but the wheelhouse is the eyes and ears. You see this,’ he said, pointing to a fan-shaped instrument on a metal trunk. ‘We have a gyro compass and a gyro pilot. The gyro compass provides a permanent indication of true north and is unaffected by the movement of the ship. Then these, on each side of the bridge, are steering repeaters. They “repeat” the master compass. This one,’ he said, tapping the dial, ‘is operated in conjunction with a wireless direction-finding installation. There’s also a thirty-day continuous course-recording instrument – you see, over here – in which all changes of course and the time of their occurrence are automatically registered.’

  ‘I see, or rather I don’t see,’ Edward said, unable to take it all in. ‘It’s good to know you can’t get lost in this trackless waste. Is this the steering gear?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not just your ordinary helm. It detects any variation of course and determines the amount of helm required to correct it.’

  ‘And those, over there?’

  ‘Searchlights. High intensity arc lights. Come up to the bridge again tonight and you can see the way they illumine the ocean. It’s pretty impressive. Do you want to hold the helm? It’s quite something to say you’ve steered the Queen Mary.’

  Edward grasped a little wheel fitted to the main steering apparatus. ‘Does this really steer the ship?’ he asked in amazement.

  ‘It allows ordinary hand steering but, for most of the time, she’s on automatic.’

  ‘No chance of meeting any icebergs then?’ Edward bit his tongue. What on earth had made him say it? It must be the pain in his knee.

  The Captain smiled grimly. ‘On this crossing, anything’s possible. By the way, this came for you. It had to be decoded so it couldn’t go direct to you.’ He handed Edward a slip of paper folded in half.

  Edward read it and then pocketed it. ‘It’s just as I supposed.’

  ‘Can you deal with it?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Captain. I’ll let you know if I need assistance.’

  ‘Frank tells me you are a “fellow-traveller”,’ Verity said conversationally.

  Bernard Hunt looked nervously over his shoulder. ‘Oh no. Did he say that? It must have been the storm. I . . . I wouldn’t want it known. I’m an art dealer, not a politician.’

  ‘I’m afraid the Nazis have made it impossible to distinguish between politics and our private life. Are you a member of the Party?’

  Hunt squirmed in his seat, his horse-like face a mask of melancholy. ‘Not a Party member – a sympathizer, as the boy told you – that’s all. Please, I don’t want to discuss it.’

  ‘Do you think there’s such a thing as Communist art?’ Verity was genuinely interested.

  Hunt put on his lecturing voice and Verity, who was used to being talked at by Comrades, sat back and listened. ‘Artists have always put into their work something of their attitude towards life. That doesn’t mean all art has to be as directly propagandist as Goya’s Third of May, Delacroix’s Liberty on the Barricades or David’s Death of Marat but, even in paintings which, at first sight, seem not to present any definite attitude towards life, such a view is latent. A painter of historical scenes will be attracted by those that tally with his own outlook and a portrait painter will be making some statement about the sitter.’

  ‘So all paintings are a kind of propaganda?’

  ‘Of course! The spectator is always going to be affected by the subject matter – whether it’s an apple or a woman. What could be more fatal for art than cutting it off from the serious activities of life?’

  ‘But surely that means the difference between good art and bad art is simply how effective it is as propaganda?’

  ‘No. An artist may be competent or incompetent but art which does not contribute to the public good is bad art. Lenin, quoting Lurçat, says: “L’art n’est plus un jeu gratuit; c’est une activité offensive.” ’

  ‘But here, on the Queen Mary, the art you have chosen is bourgeois art?’ Verity waved her hand at a painting of a bunch of flowers to make her point.

  ‘Art today is in a mess, I grant you. It’s all a matter of the status of the artist. Pre-capitalism, in the Middle Ages, the artist was a servant of the community with a definite status in society. Now he’s a servant of the leisured class. And, what’s worse, he thinks he’s not a craftsman but imagines he’s someone special. He’s gradually isolated himself from the working class. But there is hope. I wanted to commission Diego Rivera to do a mural in the New Realist style but Cunard wouldn’t have it, so I had to put up with Doris Zinkeisen.’

  ‘Don’t you like her art?’

  ‘It’s all right but compared with Rivera . . .’ He left the rest unsaid. ‘At least it provoked a response in one spectator and proved Lenin’s point that art is an act of aggression.’

  ‘Who do you think killed Senator Day?’ Verity said, abruptly changing the subject.

  ‘You know that,’ Hunt replied, looking surprised.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Surely it was your friend Sam Forrest? That’s what everyone thinks. He was being blackmailed by that awful man so he tapped him on the head and put him in the pool. We saw him when he came on deck. He looked frightful and then we heard about Day being killed. It didn’t take Einstein to work out who did it.’

  ‘Except for the murderer, Sam was the last pers
on to see him alive,’ Verity said slowly, ‘but he didn’t do it. I’m sure of it.’

  Hunt looked at her pityingly and seemed about to say something but checked himself.

  ‘Well,’ Verity said unhappily, ‘you can’t think he attacked Jane Barclay or damaged Miss Zinkeisen’s mural.’

  ‘Not the mural. That was Major Cranton. I more or less saw him do it.’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘I saw him walking out of the Verandah Grill with an ice bucket. I followed him up on deck and watched him throw it over the side.’

  ‘What . . . iced water?’

  ‘No, the ice bucket was full of black paint.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About five o’clock this morning. I woke up early and went for a stroll. The ship’s wonderful when it’s empty of people.’

  ‘But what did you do? You must have been horrified to see a work of art you had commissioned being vandalized?’

  ‘At the time, I had no idea what he was doing walking about with a pail of black stuff.’

  ‘You didn’t ask him?’

  ‘I thought about it, even walked up to him and opened my mouth to speak but he gave me such a look I’m afraid I turned tail. I admit it, I was frightened. I’m not physically courageous, you understand, Miss Browne.’

  ‘But you’re telling me now. Aren’t you afraid of what he might do when he discovers you’ve told me?’

  ‘I’m not sure I really care any more. Anyway, I thought if you told that nice Lord Edward Corinth he would know what to do without involving me.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why don’t you care any more?’

  ‘I’ve just been on the telephone to my friend in New York. He’s my business partner, you understand. I sent over a painting I had bought cheaply in London which I was convinced was by Poussin. The world authority on Poussin is a man called Ray Parish. He’s attached to the Metropolitan. Anyway, Parish says it’s not a Poussin after all so I’m effectively broke.’ He saw that Verity had no idea who Poussin was. ‘Not heard of Poussin? One of the world’s greatest artists? Nicolas Poussin, French, born 1594, died 1665? Ah well, sic transit and so on.’

  ‘Of course I’ve heard of Poussin,’ she countered, unconvincingly.

  ‘I gambled and lost. I was certain but it seems I was wrong.’

  ‘But you said you bought it cheap?’

  ‘Cheap, but it still used all the money I could scrape together.’

  ‘Can’t you just sell it on for what it is?’

  ‘Maybe, but now it’s certain it’s not a Poussin, I won’t get very much for it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is it a beautiful painting?’

  ‘As a matter of fact it is – the Holy Family with St John.’

  ‘A religious painting?’

  ‘Naturally. Why, does it shock you?’

  ‘Surprised, that’s all, after what you said about Communist painting. But I see I’m just being silly.’

  ‘Yes, you are and, anyway, why are you sorry? It’s nothing to do with you. I’m going to drown my sorrows with Roger at the bar. Coming?’

  ‘A bit early for me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well then . . .’ He shrugged and strolled off, whistling under his breath.

  ‘You’ve got to tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’ Perry sounded bored.

  ‘My uncle says there’s something I don’t know . . . something I ought to know.’

  ‘But what don’t you know?’

  ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t have to ask.’

  ‘You’re making my head spin. I didn’t sleep so well last night. Come and see my mother. She likes you. Maybe she can tell you what you want to know.’

  ‘Those headaches your mother seems to have so often . . . is she ill? I mean seriously ill?’

  ‘She’s not ill,’ Perry said, his voice neutral.

  ‘But someone else is?’

  ‘Stop asking me questions. I told you, it makes my head hurt.’

  ‘Perry, I need to know. We’re friends, aren’t we? My uncle wouldn’t have said what he did if there wasn’t something to know.’

  ‘Your uncle’s smarter than he looks.’ Perry hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose you will have to know sometime, but don’t tell Philly I told you.’

  ‘Philly? It’s got to do with her?’

  ‘I thought you would have guessed. Didn’t you see the arsenic in my mother’s cabin? I thought Philly saw you pick it up off the floor.’

  ‘Yes, I thought it odd. What does it mean? Is someone taking poison?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Perry smiled wryly. ‘Philly has leukaemia. It’s a kind of cancer . . . of the blood. Arsenic trioxide is what she has to take – medicine, you understand – but I don’t think it’s making any difference. Did you think we were poisoning someone?’

  ‘Leukaemia! I . . . I can’t believe it. She looks so well . . . so beautiful!’

  ‘You mean the way her skin looks transparent sometimes . . . as though you could look right through her? That’s her illness, so the doctors say.’

  ‘Is she . . . is she going to die?’

  ‘We’re all going to die.’

  ‘Don’t joke, Perry. I don’t see how you can joke about it.’

  ‘Is there anything else to do but laugh in the face of death? I don’t know when she will die,’ he said roughly. ‘It could be tomorrow, next week or even next year. God knows. At least, if he exists, he must.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Frank was aware of how inadequate his words were. He was fascinated by the girl . . . a finger’s breadth away from loving her . . . and now this. He felt bewildered, sick in the stomach, unable to take it in. He wanted to rush to her side but, if he did, what would he say? ‘Spend the rest of your life with me, however short a time that is.’ She would laugh at him.

  Perry, understanding his confusion continued, more gently, ‘I didn’t want to tell you because she’s happy with you. She enjoys feeling beautiful . . . being courted. She wanted to have you as her last lover and she has. Now I’m afraid she’ll sense you know and all that will be over. You’ll be kind to her and she won’t be able to bear it.’

  ‘I swear I won’t. I mean I’ll be kind to her . . . of course I will! But I won’t let her know I know.’

  ‘Try not to, anyway,’ Perry said, sounding as serious as he ever could.

  ‘So that’s what’s making your mother so ill . . . watching Philly . . .?’

  ‘Die? That and worrying about me.’

  ‘About you?’

  ‘We’re twins, remember.’

  ‘Of course! It must be terrible for you seeing your twin . . . seeing her . . .’

  ‘Not only that. The doc says I have to face it . . . I may develop the same thing.’

  Frank looked at him with dawning comprehension. ‘Perry, I didn’t think. I . . .’

  In a spontaneous gesture which his father, the Duke, would have considered un-English, the boy put his arms around his friend and hugged him. Perry, surprised, at first resisted and then returned his embrace. ‘You’re a bloody fool, Frank’, he said in his ear. ‘This was all I ever wanted but you have given it to me like this so it means something else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Frank said, pushing him away but still holding him by both arms.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Perry said wearily.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You know . . . you must know . . . I love you.’ He shook himself free. ‘I love you . . . damn you, and now I disgust you. I disgust myself. Goodbye, don’t follow me. I’m just going to find a conveniently empty part of the deck and throw myself over the side. Hey, don’t look like that. I’m only joking. Go and find Philly. Make her happy.’

  11

  That evening, there was to be a fancy-dress ball. Every night there was dancing but this was different. The Purser announced that he had chests full of costumes which passengers were welcome to pick over if they had nothing of their own to wear. But, before that, there was t
o be a brief service for Tom Barrett and Senator Day. The funerals would, of course, wait on the wishes of the two men’s families but Captain Peel did not feel it right that their violent deaths should go unmarked, even if it did make some passengers uneasy. He had been relieved that there had been no panic following the murder of Senator Day. It was as though even passengers who had never met the man knew his reputation and were unsurprised that one of their number had chosen to do away with him. How terrible, Captain Peel thought, to be murdered and for no one to be surprised. Irritation at the inconvenience of having the swimming-pool closed seemed the nearest there was to grief at the man’s passing.

  At three o’clock, a small group of passengers repaired to the library where the altar had been erected and several rows of seats set up in front of it. Verity refused to attend on principle. She was, being a Communist, an atheist and, as she said, although she occasionally attended a religious service out of respect for other people’s feelings, she had not liked Day and his views on race had appalled her. Sam Forrest, too, absolutely refused to attend. ‘It would be like gloating,’ he said brusquely when Verity had asked him. Rather surprisingly, Warren Fairley was there. Glancing ruefully at Edward, he whispered that, much as he had disliked the Senator, he did not approve of murder and was there in silent protest.

  As there would also be prayers for Tom Barrett, Lord Benyon, Marcus Fern, Edward and Frank sat themselves down in the front row. Edward buried his face in his hands and tried to pray for Barrett, whom he had hardly known but had liked and sincerely mourned. The trouble was that, however hard he tried to bring to mind Barrett’s pleasant, boyish face, the Senator’s unpleasant mask, twisted by hatred of his fellow man, insisted on taking its place. Whether the Senator had in life been quite so repellent he could not now say but, in his mind’s eye, the man looked grotesquely evil.