by Tim Heald
Tudor looked out across the Butler’s Pantry like an ancient mariner on the qui-vive for icebergs or albatrosses. Prince Abdullah was still glowering and when Tudor followed his gaze he saw that he was glowering at his arch-enemy Doctor Umlaut who was sitting with his wife at a corner table which had Umlaut all over it. You sensed that this was table Umlauts-for-the-use-of-only and that should any common or garden ordinary passenger try to usurp it they would get short shrift from Shane the maitre d’ from Toowoomba. What made Tudor frown almost as menacingly as Prince Abdullah was that there were three at the Umlaut table and the third party was none other than his precocious side-kick and Ph.D. student, Elizabeth Burney. She seemed relaxed, at ease – as indeed did the Umlauts. It was if they had known each other for years. Tudor was no lip-reader, but from the shapes their mouths were making he would have said they were not speaking English.
Mandy was talking. Tudor wrenched his gaze away from the tableau before him and paid attention to her. She was agitated.
‘I’ve been on the Duchess for longer than I care to remember,’ she said, ‘and every other voyage I’ve been on has been almost totally without incident. Ocean flat as duckpond; passengers friendly and appreciative; crew efficient and courteous; no serious illness; no more than occasional fatalities and then always from natural causes on account of advanced years and chronic long term illness. The Duchess has never had what other ships had: no mystery bugs; no sewage in the staterooms; no bloody pirates. Just cruisy-cruisy. All quiet on the Western Approaches. No man, woman or child overboard. Just what the doctor ordered. Everything always passed off without incident. But this voyage is just one long incident after another. I think there’s a Jonah on board.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not a Jonah, are you?’
The three girls were now playing the Radetsky March which presumably called for a military two-step. Ambrose Perry and his colleagues and their charges went on shuffling gently just the same. It would take more than a change of tempo from the orchestra to make them break sweat. Besides, if they did there would have been fatalities among the old ladies. Not that there was any sign of stumbling among the dancers. The swell of the ocean beneath was insufficient to cause more than the occasional gentle shift of the goalposts and their pace was so stately that there was no danger of falling.
‘I’m a guest speaker in good standing, as well you know,’ said Tudor, ‘and for all his faults the same is true of Sir Goronwy. I don’t think you can be a regular cruiser and Jonah too. So that rules out Prince Abdullah and Doctor Umlaut as well. They’re recidivists.’
‘I’m not superstitious,’ said Mandy, ‘but I am bothered. This voyage is becoming a nightmare. First we have that mad Irish hijack which is nipped in the bud, but then the ring leader gets sprung. Meanwhile a mysterious Flying Irishman turns up and does a bunk, but not before one of our lifeboats comes alongside her with a cargo of gold bars. And then they’re surprised in mid ocean by this bloody great sailing ship. So we get the lifeboat and the gold back but the captain is missing. Or seems to be. Or might be or might not. And whoever was in charge of the lifeboat has vanished. Along with the captain.’
‘Unless the person who was in charge of the lifeboat was the captain himself.’
‘But why in God’s name would Sam make off in a lifeboat with several millions worth of gold bars and then vanish, presumably either overboard or into the bowels of the mad Irish university ship? Which may or may not have your would-be obituarist Professor Ashley Carpenter on board.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Tudor. ‘Put like that I concede it does sound pretty odd. You weren’t selling this as a mystery cruise, were you? Or a celebrity whodunit?’
‘It’s not funny, dammit.’
She noticed that Tudor had suddenly stopped even pretending to pay attention to what she was saying but was focused uncompromisingly on the dance floor. The three-piece orchestra had switched to something Argentinian and tango-like. Surprisingly wild and raunchy. Gypsy music. The lead violin tossed her head and bared her teeth. The cellist and the pianist followed suit. Ambrose Perry and the others continued to shuffle, but a new and unexpected couple had taken to the floor and were executing what looked to Tudor’s admittedly inexpert and untutored eye like a pretty passable piece of Latin-American exhibitionism. It was Dr Umlaut and Elizabeth Burney. Frau Umlaut did not look pleased.
‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Tudor. Little Miss Burney never ceased to surprise him. She was unrecognizable, all hips and slinkiness and as if she had a rose or carnation clutched between her canines. Something clenched between the buttocks too, he thought, and then checked himself. Little Umlaut wasn’t bad either in a predictably mechanical parade-ground manner. He did the samba-rumba-tango or whatever, not like a Latin but in the manner of the Prussian Guard, as if taught by some Teutonic drill sergeant. The whole cabaret was a revelation. People noticed, even Ambrose Perry. Beside him Mandy Goldslinger gaped.
‘Is that your little girl with that Kraut?’
‘Elizabeth dancing with Dr Umlaut. Looks like it, yes.’
‘If you call that dancing. Jeez. We don’t get that kind of thing on the Duchess on the average cruise.’
Tudor gazed at the elderly stick-insects and mountainous jellies all around the pyrotechnical little German and his precocious Tasmanian sidekick and could see only too well that this must be true.
‘We have to find Captain Sam,’ said Tudor, bringing them both back to earth.
‘Too right,’ said Mandy.
‘But it’s sort of difficult to find someone if the powers-that-be deny that he’s missing.’
‘Can’t we overrule Donaldson?’
‘Not without Sam. Sam’s the only man on board who out-ranks him. Sam can order him to do anything he likes but no one else can. Without Sam he is Sam, if you follow me.’ Tudor took a long draught of water and as if by magical osmosis Shane appeared with a chilly replacement. Tudor nodded gratefully and the maitre d’ bared his fangs in acknowledgement.
‘What you mean,’ said Tudor, ‘is that if Donaldson won’t admit there’s a problem we can’t solve it.’
‘You could put it like that.’
‘Suppose I insist on seeing Sam.’
‘You can insist as much as you like,’ she said. ‘I’ve tried that. He just says that Sam isn’t well enough to see anyone, that he’s sedated, that he can’t speak because of the laryngitis and he specifically asked not to see anyone.’
‘How could he do that if he’s incapable of speech?’
‘I imagine he wrote it down on a piece of paper. Sign language maybe. It doesn’t matter. Angus Donaldson’s word is law unless Sam is able to overrule him. And, what’s more, can be seen to be able to overrule him.’
The three girls stopped playing their sexy foot-stamping number and acknowledged the applause of the tea-dancers and tea-drinkers. Some of the applause appeared to be aimed at Elizabeth and Dr Umlaut. Tea was now officially over. Drinking up time. Nothing to eat between now and olives and nuts in the happy hour which would begin in less than half an hour’s time. There were plenty of passengers on board who browsed and sluiced on a non-stop basis. That’s what they paid for.
Tudor pursed his lips.
‘You’re right,’ he said, eventually, ‘we’ve a lot of mysteries for just one little cruise. I’m not sure if they’re connected or just coincidental. And I can’t work out whether Captain Sam constitutes a mystery or just a straightforward medical indisposition.’
‘The change of locks is a clincher, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’ve only got your word for that,’ he said.
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘Of course not. But. Well, there may be another explanation. A perfectly respectable one.’
‘Nobody else knows about Sam and me,’ she said.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘I may not know this ship particularly well but one thing I do understand about closed societies such as this: you can’t keep secrets. Everybody knows wh
at everyone else is doing.’
‘No one knows where Sam is. Or who changed the locks. Or why. Or about the gold. Or the lifeboat. Or the mysterious ships in mid-ocean. Life is suddenly nothing but secrets.’
‘Not for long,’ he said with certainty. ‘I simply don’t believe you can keep secrets on the Duchess. Not for any length of time.’
He looked up. Elizabeth was standing breathing heavily and perspiring gently. A bead of sweat stood out on her upper lip.
‘Did I hear the word secret?’ she said. ‘I think you’re right. Secrets will out. People can’t keep them. Particularly during a thé dansant and revisiting the time of their life.’ Her two elders regarded her with a mixture of suspicion and admiration.
‘Time to change for the next round,’ she said. ‘Dinner soon. Black tie evening.’
Chapter Eighteen
Tudor turned on the television in his cabin and was surprised to find a man talking about the Mutiny on the Bounty. He seemed quite articulate and to know about what he was talking. He did not look well, however, and was pale, if not exactly green about the gills. His tie was loosely tied, exposing the top button of his shirt. Occasionally he paused to take a sip of water from a glass on the table at his elbow.
It was a moment or two before Tudor realized that he was watching himself. He had been on the verge of saying that the lecturer was not nearly as good as he was. In fact, he was about to disagree with him about the ‘inward happiness and peculiar pleasure’ experienced by Captain Bligh when he was cast off the Bounty in the ship’s boat. Would whoever was lowered over the side of the Duchess in the lifeboat have experienced similar emotions? ‘Inward happiness and peculiar pleasure’ were indeed the words that Bligh had written at the time in his running log. Whoever went off in the Duchess’s boat had kept no log. Or if he had, it hadn’t turned up.
He turned himself off. It was disconcerting to see himself in that way but at least the image was controllable. Good PR as well. He wondered how many others on board ship were dressing for dinner and watching his earlier performance. Freddie Grim? The Goronwy Watkyns? Prince Abdullah and his wives? The Umlauts? The Master? The Staff Captain? Mandy Goldslinger? Ambrose Perry and the gentlemen hosts? Who knew? He was tempted to ask ‘Who cared?’ But he knew that although he would never admit it to the world at large there was a part of him, probably a dominant part, that cared quite a lot. He craved an audience. Pity that he didn’t come across better on TV.
There was a knock at the door and he abandoned his half-tied bow tie and went to open it. It was Elizabeth dressed to kill and for dinner. She was wearing the classic little black dress. It began late and finished early which, at her age and with her figure, was allowable. In a few years she’d have to start dressing a little more like mutton but for the time being she could do lamb and get away with it.
‘Hi!’ he said, non-committal as ever, and then, rather out of character, added, ‘You’re looking particularly nice.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. ‘And you look a bit the worse for wear. Do you want me to tie your tie? Why don’t you have a clip-on? Particularly when you so obviously can’t tie your own. So how was La Goldslinger? What was so important?’
‘I saw you with Umlaut. Dancing.’
‘Of course.’ She smelt nice as well as looking nice. Especially standing close behind him as she deftly fixed the tie around his neck. But she was about the same age as his daughter would have been if he had one. ‘Nifty little mover our Walter.’ She pronounced the name in an un-English way. ‘Vultur’.
‘Vultur,’ he repeated, sounding idiotic.
‘My new friend,’ she said, pulling the black silk ends tight and straightening the tie in the glass. ‘There,’ she said, ‘perfecto. Good enough to be fake. Yes, Dr Umlaut is Vultur and his wife is Irmgarde. They asked me to dinner in their suite. They have their own butler. I declined.’
‘And Irmgarde doesn’t mind you dancing with Vultur?’
‘Not at all,’ she smiled. ‘It’s good for him. He needs the exercise. He was the young foxtrot champion of Basel in his youth. She has a funny leg so she can’t dance any more. They used to be very good she says. So no. No objections.’
‘Charming,’ said Tudor, feeling his teeth gritting. ‘So Basel. Swiss not Kraut?’
‘Schwitzer-kraut,’ she said. ‘Pharmaceuticals. Umlaut, Umlaut and Umlaut. Or something like that. His great grandfather invented the oral contraceptive. At least I think that’s what he meant. He was a bit coy about it. So what’s your news? What did La Goldslinger want? Don’t tell me, it was a proposition: she wants to get you into bed.’ He turned round and took his jacket off its hanger. He was wearing braces, plain dark-blue ones with gold-coloured clips; his shoes had toe-caps and laces and were highly polished. He was that sort of man. Dull, he thought to himself. When all was said and done he was dull. He so very much wished not to be and made every effort to be interesting. But deep down he knew that he wasn’t. Elizabeth on the other hand was. It was annoying. Very.
‘No Madam Goldslinger did not make a pass.’ He shrugged into his dinner jacket and patted non-existent dandruff off the shoulders.
‘Snap then,’ she said. ‘Vultur didn’t make a pass at me either. Though I wouldn’t put it past them at dinner. I have a feeling they’re a kinky couple. I suspect she likes to watch. Only guessing but there’s something about them that’s kind of fishy. In a sexual way. Know what I mean? Anyway, tell me: what did la Goldslinger want?’
He patted his pockets to make sure he had keys, wallet and a handkerchief.
‘She’s been having an affair with the Captain. With Sam Hardy.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I thought you knew that.’
He looked at her sharply. ‘Did you know?’
‘Everybody knew.’
‘Mandy thought it was a secret.’
‘Oh,’ she shrugged, ‘people who are having illicit affairs always assume they’ve managed to keep their guilty secret when they’ve failed to do so. You know that.’
‘I suppose.’ It was years since Tudor had enjoyed an illicit affair or even harboured a guilty secret. His professional studies told him that what the girl said was true but he knew it only in a professional academic sense. Vicarious, not visceral. It was at moments like this that he wondered if his copper friends such as Chief Inspector Trythall back home at the Wessex Constabulary didn’t have a point. Trythall’s approach to crime was sharp-end stuff. His was ivory-tower. It was a point Trythall enjoyed making. He himself countered by arguing that a certain dispassionate, cool academic examination was more valuable than gut reactions. But, privately, he had doubts. At moments such as this he wondered if he were too thin-blooded.
‘People like Mandy Goldslinger never seem to understand how visible they are. She’s a celebrity on board ship. Likewise old Popeye Sam Hardy. She can’t sneeze without the passengers and crew catching a cold. Nor he.’
She sat down on Tudor’s bed and yawned.
‘Been quite a day,’ she said, ‘I hadn’t imagined cruising would be so exciting. So Mandy let you into a secret that the rest of them have been sharing for as long as the relationship’s been going on. Then what? I got something useful out of Vultur so you’d better have something other than l’affaire Hardy-Goldslinger. Sounds like a new ship’s cocktail – a local take on the Harvey Wallbanger.’
‘The Harvey Wallbanger was invented by Duke Antone in the 1950s,’ said Tudor. ‘A local surfer called Harvey had a bad day on the beach and consoled himself in the Blackwatch Bar run by Antone with rather too many of the Duke’s special Screwdrivers which were vodka and orange with a dash of Galliano. When he got up to go he couldn’t find the door and kept bumping into walls. Hence Harvey Wallbanger.’
Tm impressed,’ said Elizabeth stifling a second yawn, ‘so what else did Mandy tell you?’
‘That she’s lost her lover. She can’t find Sam any more than anyone else. But what’s really sinister is that they’ve
changed the locks on his cabin door. Mandy had a set of keys but now she can’t get in.’
‘So who’s “they”?’
‘I don’t know. Angus Donaldson’s in charge if Sam’s not with us. He gives the orders, has the authority. If someone else changed the locks Angus would have the right to overrule them.’
‘So why would Donaldson change the locks?’
‘So that people like Mandy couldn’t get into the captain’s cabin.’
‘And why would he want to do that?’
‘Because the cabin contains something that he doesn’t want Mandy to find.’
She frowned. ‘Or nothing,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s like the dog in the night,’ she said. ‘Not the barking but the lack of barking. The conceit is that Captain Sam is lying in his own bed speechless on account of his laryngitis. But suppose he’s been bumped off and tipped overboard, then there’s no one in the Captain’s cabin and the emptiness has to be concealed from prying eyes.’
‘So,’ said Tudor, aware that he was not functioning at the top of his range, ‘Angus Donaldson is responsible for the murder of Captain Sam and is covering up by having the locks changed, shutting the cabin up and keeping the keys.’
‘It’s a theory,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Perfectly plausible. Except that in a few days we’ll be docking and the NYPD will be all over the Duchess like marauding ants.’
‘So he’s got till then to work out a final solution.’
‘Yup,’ said the girl, tossing her head. ‘I guess you’re right. Nothing else you have to tell me?’
‘No,’ he said, sitting down heavily in one of his two status-conferring armchairs, ‘Your turn now. Go ahead. Shoot.’
‘Well,’ she said, giving the impression of a story-teller who is anxious to make the most of a good, if tall tale, ‘you’ve noticed that the Umlauts and Prince Abdullah aren’t exactly the best of pals.’
‘It hadn’t escaped my notice,’ said Tudor drily. ‘But you wouldn’t expect it? They both behave as if they owned the ship. Naturally they can’t stand the sight of each other. It’s alpha-male stuff. Testosterone. Everything is part of the game. Take the wives. Parading them around the ship is the sheikh’s way of putting two fingers up at Walter. Poor old Walter’s only got Irmgarde. Or did, until you came along and inveigled him on to the dance floor.’