Dangerous Sea

by David Roberts

  Mrs Dolmen was there supporting Mrs Day and Edward could not help but wonder why the two women had found such solace in each other’s company. Was it because, in their different ways, both their husbands were bullies? On reflection, Edward was inclined to think that it was more than this. Was there an unconscious triumph for Mrs Dolmen in being able to succour Mrs Day, the widow of the man who had threatened to keep her husband and herself out of the promised land? She certainly seemed to have added an inch to her stature as she helped the widow into a chair in the front row. Edward chided himself for his cynicism.

  Professor Dolmen had chosen not to attend, which was no surprise, but Jane Barclay – white as the linen cloth on the altar – was there, clutching her husband’s arm.

  The Captain spoke a few words, expressing his shock and horror at the death of the two men, and then the service started. It was led by the Queen Mary’s own clergyman. The whole thing lasted no more than forty minutes but Edward was glad it had been held. Death, he thought, ought never to be shuffled to one side as a minor inconvenience for those left behind. They owed it, too, to Day’s widow who seemed genuinely griefstricken. Perhaps, he mused, a familiar monster was better than no monster at all. He meditated on the unpredictability of fate. For all the Senator’s religion – his quoting of Scripture on every possible occasion – he had not been what he would call a God-fearing man. The God of the southern states was not his God. Day’s God had been a dark, revengeful God, wielding a two-edged sword. Edward tried to pray.

  What human instrument of such a God had finally caught up with the Senator? Had Death made an appointment with him on this ship, sailing across the Atlantic, as a grim joke? To die on an ocean of water . . . in a swimming-pool! Did God have a macabre sense of humour? Or did God not come into it? The murderer . . . what if he . . . or she . . .? If she . . . who? Why? Edward’s experience, limited though it was, suggested that a man might, with his superior strength, kill a woman on impulse but for a woman to kill a man . . . that required effort and planning . . . premeditation, and premeditation meant the hangman’s rope or the electric chair. It was a barbarism, he believed, to hang a woman but where was the logic of his partiality? Was not all killing wrong, even if it was the law’s decree? Too many questions getting him nowhere. A woman could be as evil as a man . . . but, more often than not, she was driven to kill by a malevolent man. Few women killed compared to men and to do so they had to have a very good reason. Nemesis seemed too melodramatic a word but certainly evil went wherever men went, even on the Queen Mary.

  His musings were interrupted by the priest’s final dismissal. To go in peace . . . if only that proved possible. As the little congregation disbanded, Edward was approached by Jane Barclay. ‘I guess I ought to thank you for saving my life back in that steam room. If you . . . you and your nephew . . . hadn’t heard . . .’

  ‘No need to thank me,’ Edward said lightly. ‘I’m glad to see you up and about. Are you well enough to join me for a drink before lunch?’

  ‘Sure, why not? Warren’s got to rehearse.’

  ‘Rehearse?’

  ‘Yes, the Captain’s asked him if he would sing at the ball tonight. He never says no,’ she added, a little wearily.

  Over a Tom Collins supplied by Roger in the cocktail bar, Edward studied the girl in front of him. It was no hardship. She was very good to look at and he reckoned Warren Fairley was a lucky man. He said what was on his mind.

  ‘Lucky man, your husband.’

  ‘Oh, I’m the lucky one, I guess,’ she said without affectation and Edward knew she was sincere. ‘He’s a great man. Do you know what I’d put on his tombstone if ever, God forbid, I had to think about such a thing? Patience on a monument . . . that’s what. His patience is just amazing. He puts up with unimaginable harassment, all sorts of slights and insults. It seems he can achieve nothing . . . I mean about what matters to him, the prejudice against black skins. He bears all this and never gives up hope.’

  ‘Do you give up hope?’

  ‘Nope, but I sometimes lose patience. It’s no fun being taken for a pervert.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You heard what that man Day said. A white girl has no business cohabiting with a black man. He called me white trash, mentally unsound . . . and a whole lot worse.’ She spoke with such fervour that Edward was taken aback. ‘I expect you think I’m a blonde bimbo with just enough sense to attach myself to a noble man.’

  ‘I don’t at all,’ he said firmly. ‘I think you are highly intelligent, determined and what I think I have heard an American friend of mine call a “cool operator”. When I said Warren was a lucky man, I didn’t mean just because you are a highly desirable woman – or rather, not only that – but because you are loyal and resourceful. If I may presume to judge, I would say you protected him rather than he protected you, great man though he is.’

  Jane looked at her interlocutor with something like respect. ‘I do my best,’ she said, grudgingly.

  ‘I think you do better than that. It’s my belief that not only do you suffer with dignity the abuse of racial bigots and political enemies but you also tolerate your husband’s occasional infidelities and soften, as far as you are able, the effects of his naive and sometimes reckless disregard for his own safety.’

  She looked at him steadily and after a moment said, ‘Meaning . . .?’

  ‘Apologies! Verity – Miss Browne – would say I was being pompous; meaning, I don’t think anyone tried to kill you in the steam room. I think the chloroform pad I found beside you belonged to you rather than a would-be killer. I think you wanted to make it seem as though you had been attacked. You had to make it look as though you had been very close to death without actually killing yourself. And you were very successful. Furthermore, I think you only thanked me for saving your life to impress on me that you had been in danger of losing it – or to make sure that I had been taken in by your little charade.’

  She blinked and said shakily, ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘You had determined to kill Senator Day and to do it without attracting suspicion, either to your husband or to yourself.’

  ‘So I pretended to stifle myself – is that it?’

  ‘That’s right, so no one would think you might kill the Senator. You played iller than you really were and it worked. I am right, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re very tough on me. Why should I want to kill Day?’

  ‘He threatened your husband and he threatened you. You had plenty of motives – too many, some might say.’

  She was silent and then said, ‘Yes, you’re right, I did kill that man. He was . . . a sex beast too. Did you know that?’

  ‘What’s a sex beast? He tried to rape you?’

  ‘It amounted to that, I guess. He said he had always wanted me and if I let him . . . have me . . . he would stop persecuting us. He said if I didn’t, he would have us before this new Senate Committee and stop us working in America ever again. I couldn’t allow that. I said he could sleep with me if that was what he wanted, though it made my flesh crawl to think of it. He suggested we do it immediately but I said not in my cabin, and not in his either. I suggested the changing rooms of the swimming-pool. I knew most people would be up on deck for your race.’

  ‘And what happened? I mean, obviously, you didn’t sleep with him.’

  ‘No. I suddenly thought: why would he leave me alone if I slept with him once? He had no morals, no principles. Why would he keep his side of the bargain?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So as we walked beside the pool, I pointed out the emergency telephone and said I would use it if I didn’t like what he was doing to me. He turned to look at it and then looked at me and grinned. I think that was what decided me – his grin. It was evil. He went over to the edge of the pool and looked down into the water.’ She was speaking mechanically as if she were recounting a dream she only half understood. ‘I picked up a hammer. I think it must have been left there by one of the men who h
ad been checking the controls to the steam room. I hit him over the head with it and I heard his skull crack – you know? – like when you crack a walnut. He . . . he toppled into the water. He made an awful splash and I was afraid someone would hear, but nobody came.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run away. I didn’t want to look into the water but I had to. It was horrible – as though someone had tipped some dirty washing into the clean water. He was face down and his head . . . I could see the blood. And then I thought I did hear someone so I ran away.’

  Edward said nothing while he considered this. Was she telling the truth or was it another lie? Did the story of the panicky girl hitting out to protect her honour square with the cool, competent woman who had told him to tell Verity to take her ‘mitts’ off her man? She had already proved she was a remarkably good actress. Was she acting now? She lowered her eyes, waiting for him to speak. ‘Did you mean to kill him?’ he said at last.

  ‘I suppose so. I didn’t think it would be so easy, that’s all.’

  ‘What did you do with the hammer?’

  ‘I took it back to my cabin and threw it through the window . . . the porthole.’

  ‘And then what did you do?’

  ‘I had a shower and got back into bed.’

  Edward was silent once more. Jane, her hand shaking, finished her drink and signalled Roger to bring her another. When the bartender had brought the drink and Edward had still said nothing, she continued, ‘So what are you going to do about it? Turn me in?’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know,’ he said wretchedly. ‘That’s what I ought to do.’ He thought he saw a momentary flash of relief in her eyes but, if that was what it had been, why relief? Why did she want to be thought a murderer? Did she think she had checkmated him? Because that is exactly what she had done, he now realized.

  She was still speaking, pleading, seducing him. It was difficult to resist. ‘And ruin two lives for nothing?’ The tears welled in her eyes but did not fall. ‘You know, if anyone deserved to die, it was that man. He was an animal. No, that’s not right. Animals aren’t malicious and, if they are predatory, it’s because they need to eat.’

  Edward wiped his forehead and then got up and began to pace around. The bartender looked at him curiously. ‘I admire your husband enormously – you must know that – and I agree Day deserved to come to a bad end but . . .’

  ‘Every good boy must turn in a killer? Is that it?’ Her voice was hardening.

  ‘I . . . well, yes. I don’t know!’

  ‘And if you did tell the Captain or the police what I’ve told you, who would believe you? You don’t think I would say this all over again, do you? I would deny it . . . play the hard-done-by little girl. If it ever came to court, no jury would convict . . . no jury north of the Mason-Dixon line, anyway. Is that what you want, to make a fool of yourself and make misery for us?’

  ‘No, of course not, but murder isn’t something you can just dismiss as trivial. Most of us have wanted to murder someone at one time or another but we don’t . . .’

  ‘I agree, it’s not a trivial thing to do but you can be driven to it. Do you think I might do it again?’

  ‘Why not? If you get away with it this time, you’ll be tempted to do it again. You said Warren’s plagued by enemies . . . enemies like flies to be swatted out of the way. Oh God, I wish you hadn’t told me. Why did you tell me?’

  ‘I read somewhere – and yes, I do read – that murderers require confession and then punishment but mainly they need to confess. I can do without punishment but it is a relief to tell someone. It’s what drove Lady Macbeth mad, I guess, having to keep it to herself. I told you because you asked . . . or, at least, I thought you suspected me and were determined enough to find out for sure . . . and I thought you might understand.’

  ‘And this checkmates me . . . your confession? You may be wrong.’

  ‘I may be wrong. Ask that girl of yours, Verity Browne. I’ll abide by her decision.’

  ‘You’re prepared to gamble with . . .?’

  ‘Yes. Ask Verity Browne and then do what you think you have to do.’

  Frank’s head was still a confusion of love, anxiety and annoyance. He felt he had been treated like a child, bamboozled and teased. Philly knew what he felt about her and yet she hadn’t seen fit to let him in on her terrible secret.

  He was thinking so hard about what he would say to her when he met her that he actually bumped into her. This was the nature of their predicament. The Queen Mary might be one of the largest ships afloat but, as Dr Johnson said, if one was in the wrong mood it could resemble a prison. The exercise possibilities were many and varied but if, instead of deck tennis or squash, one simply wished to walk, every ten minutes or so one would meet another passenger engaged in the same pursuit.

  ‘Ah, Philly!’ he said inanely. He wanted to make some profound remark which would reveal him to be sensitive, tactful, supportive and wise. He had been juggling with several possible opening lines as he promenaded but, in the event, all he had come up with was, ‘Ah Philly!’

  ‘Frank,’ she acknowledged him demurely.

  ‘Come and have a drink or would you rather a game of deck quoits?’ Remembering why Philly might not have the energy for deck games, he rushed on, ‘Or no, what about backgammon? Or shall we just sit in these chairs and go to sleep?’

  ‘Dear Frank,’ she said amiably, ‘what makes you so attentive all of a sudden? By all means, let’s sit here and enjoy the sun. We may not have much more of it.’

  Frank began to sweat. Why was it that even her most innocent remarks – about the weather, about there not being much more sun – made him feel she was referring to her own lifespan?

  ‘Right, here we are. I’ll put this rug over your knees. Are you warm enough?’

  ‘Quite warm enough, thank you. Now tell me, what’s all this about?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re treating me like a sick child.’

  ‘But that’s what you are!’ he burst out.

  ‘What has Perry been telling you?’ she inquired gravely.

  ‘He said . . . he said you were sick. He said you had leukaemia. Is that true?’

  ‘It’s true but . . .’

  ‘Oh no!’ Frank’s shoulders slumped and his head fell in an extravagant gesture of despair. Philly smiled sweetly at the back of his neck.

  ‘What did he say? That I only had a few weeks to live? He’s so absurd. I shall probably outlive you all. This treatment I’m having is working. I feel hardly any tiredness now and . . .’

  ‘Philly, is there anything I can do? You know I love you. I’ll do anything . . . anything.’

  ‘You’re so sweet.’ She put out a delicate hand and stroked his. ‘Do you really love me? I think you do.’

  ‘I do, I do. I swear it. Please, Philly, marry me, won’t you? Say you’ll marry me. Say it.’

  He struggled out of his chair in an effort to go down on one knee but the chairs were so close together that this was impossible.

  ‘Of course I’ll marry you, if that’s what you want.’

  Frank stopped wriggling and looked at her. ‘You will?’ He had never thought it would be so easy and it rather floored him. Unconsciously, he had been looking forward to a period of delightful melancholy ending several months later – when it was almost too late – with a ‘yes’. He had not even had to ask her twice. He would not admit it but he felt . . . cheated.

  ‘That’s wonderful! We’ll get married in New York or Philadelphia. Where was it you said your family lived?’

  ‘But what about your people? Your uncle . . . your father and mother? Hadn’t you better tell them first?’

  Frank was outraged. He was not a child. If he wanted to marry a girl, he damn well would, even if it meant running away to Gretna Green. ‘Oh, they don’t matter,’ he said breezily before adding more doubtfully, as a vision of his mother’s face floated into his mind, �
�but of course I’ll tell them.’

  ‘They’ll say “What do you know about this girl?” ’ Philly went on sensibly. ‘For all you know, I might be penniless.’

  ‘What would that matter? I’ve got oodles of money.’ He waved his hands about. ‘I wouldn’t care if you were . . . Cinderella.’

  ‘Darling boy,’ she said dreamily. ‘We’ll be married and live in a castle, just like Cinderella. I’d like that.’ She closed her eyes and seemed to sleep.

  Sam was following Verity around like a whipped dog. The self-confident young man, who had wooed and won the workers gathered round his soap box outside factory gates a couple of weeks previously, was now a rather ludicrous figure. At least, that was what Verity thought. He would come up to her metaphorically wagging his tail and maybe offering her – again metaphorically – a dead bird in tribute only to have his peace offering brushed aside. She had principles or, if not principles, rules about whom she would sleep with. The problem was that she had broken the first of these rules with the second of her two affairs. Now she had almost broken it again and slapping Sam was the only alternative to slapping herself.

  In her defence, Ben Belasco, the American writer she had slept with in Spain, had infiltrated her defences when she was adrift and lonely in a country whose language she did not speak and whose politics she did not understand. Moreover, he had made it quite clear – in the way men do – that his wife, back in the States, accepted his infidelities. She hadn’t loved Belasco, in fact he had repelled her, but inexplicably the sex had been beyond her imagining. This relationship had ended before she had left Spain after the disaster of the siege of Toledo.

  With Sam it was quite different. They were on a luxury liner and, in a day or two, he would be back in the arms of his wife and embracing his young son. That he should want to sleep with her was flattering and, if she were honest, when he had suggested she should go to the States with him, she had anticipated that they might end up lovers. But the condom lying on the photograph of his wife and baby had effectively doused her lust and reduced him in her eyes. He was no longer the political fighter and all-round nice guy she had thought him and it saddened her. He was just another lying, cheating man. Why had she not sensed that he was married? Had she just not wanted to know? He had never said he was married but, of course, a man like him would be married. Was she a prig and a hypocrite? Possibly, but she would not forgive herself or Sam Forrest if they had a sordid, shipboard dalliance. Or was it, she thought wryly, that he had deceived an astute, worldly-wise foreign correspondent who ought not to have been fooled so easily? How did it go? Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from making idiots of ourselves.