Flora's Secret

by Anita Davison

  A vague recollection of shouts from the cabin next door came back to her, though she couldn’t recall if she had dreamed it or not. What sat clearly in her mind was the charming young man with the uninhibited laugh she had met on deck, whose vivid blue eyes had a disarming way of regarding her as if he recognized her from another place and time, although she was quite sure they had not met before.

  A warm flush spread through her when she recalled her abruptness towards him when Eddy arrived. With a resigned sigh, she threw off the bedclothes and padded to the bathroom. There wasn’t much she could do about it now, and besides, she had saved him embarrassment. Handsome young men who owned motor cars did not associate with governesses.

  *

  Sunday

  After the luxury of a hot bath where the water geyser didn’t splutter and bang like the one at home, Flora dressed leisurely, intent on taking an early walk on deck when there was no one about. Before leaving the suite, she eased open the door of Eddy’s room, to find him lying spread-eagled among rumpled covers, snoring gently.

  Confident the stewardess wouldn’t arrive with morning tea for another half hour, she threw a shawl around her shoulders and let herself out onto the promenade deck, a line of doors to the suites and staterooms running beneath a protective canopy; the luxurious part of a very glamourous ship. Land lay far behind them, the sea sprinkled with white-flecked waves below a milky blue sky that augured the beginning of a calm day.

  She decided the argument she had heard in the night wasn’t a dream, and stopped to read the label on the door next to hers: Miss E Lane. Was the lady travelling alone? And if so, who was the man she had been arguing with? Another passenger, or a member of the crew?

  A voice called from somewhere on the upper promenade deck above, followed by the sound of a door slamming. When no one appeared, she continued slowly along the deck, not yet accustomed to the gentle rise and fall of the ship.

  Having completed a full circuit of the promenade deck, she arrived at an outside companionway of narrow metal steps that dropped steeply to the Salon Deck below. At the bottom lay what appeared to be a bundle of clothes, as if someone had laid out a dinner suit on the boards. Curious, she began her descent, but half way down the companionway, the bundle transformed into the figure of a man lying prone on the saloon deck.

  A surge of alarm sent her clattering down the remaining steps, her boots ringing on the metal treads. Her enquiry of, ‘Are you hurt?’ died on her lips as she took in his unnatural stillness and the fact his eyes were open, sightless; and quite dead.

  Bile rose in her throat and she covered her mouth with her hand, which quickly felt damp as a result of short, rapid breaths through her fingers.

  She backed away several paces, then stopped, her gaze returning to the man’s features which, though slack, were recognizable as the worried-looking man she had seen with the lady in the claret coat when they had boarded.

  She stared round in panic in search of help, but the deck lay silent, except for the singing of the wind in the winch lines and a distant rumble of the engines as the ship glided over a calm ocean. Unlike the promenade deck, the staterooms on the lower saloon deck were reached from an internal corridor. She preferred not to bang on doors and risk frightening the still sleeping occupants, which was likely to cause panic. Surely someone would come by soon? Was the man here alone? Would anyone be looking for him?

  Where were the crew?

  Her initial horror turned to curiosity as she debated what to do. She took in his black dinner suit, scuffed shoes and an odd purple bruise on his right cheek. Did he get that when he fell?

  Her gaze slid to the three-inch long gash at the base of his skull, and she winced, but couldn’t look away. The open edges gaped a deep liverish red partially covered by strands of matted black hair. Apart from a smear of red-brown on his shirt collar, there was no sign of fresh blood. Even the boards beneath him looked clean, if damp.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss?’ a male voice spoke from several feet away, making her jump. A man in naval officer’s uniform stood before her, a much younger crewman at his shoulder.

  She had heard no approaching footsteps, and his sudden appearance made her heart pound again and her mouth dry so no words came.

  ‘Has the gentleman had a fall?’ Without waiting for her to respond, he eased past her and bent to the figure on the deck.

  ‘I-I don’t know,’ Flora addressed his crouched back. ‘I found him like this a few minutes ago. I think he’s dead.’

  ‘Blimey!’ the younger sailor muttered, his eyes wide.

  ‘Fetch Dr Fletcher immediately.’ The officer gestured to the young crewman, who backed away with a brief, ‘Aye, sir,’ as he turned and pounded along the deck.

  ‘Second Officer Martin, at your service, Miss uh?’ The officer rose to his full height and touched a hand to his cap, enquiry in his eyes.

  ‘Maguire. Flora Maguire.’

  He acknowledged her with a nod, then blinked, distracted, as if making a mental search of the sailor’s manual but unable to find the part about dead bodies. Seconds passed in which he appeared to make up his mind, then he straightened and grasped her arm. ‘Perhaps you should step away, Miss Maguire?’

  ‘I’m fine, truly.’ Flora rolled her shoulder out of his hold, unwilling to be shunted away as redundant. ‘The Captain might wish to ask me some questions.’

  Her initial shock had dissipated and curiosity took over. Who was the man, and had someone helped him fall down those steps?

  ‘Oh yes, of course, Miss.’ The purser stammered, staring round as if in search of guidance.

  The sound of running feet presaged the return of the young crewman in the company of a man Flora assumed to be the doctor; confirmed when he bent and rested a finger on the man’s neck and then lifted his wrist. His nut-brown hair was short, well cut, but untidy, as if he’d just got out of bed. Two more sailors had appeared from somewhere by this time, along with a steward, all of whom hovered expectantly a few feet away.

  ‘Dr Fletcher.’ He gave Flora a brisk nod by way of introduction and sat back on his haunches, his head turned towards her. ‘Did you see the gentleman fall?’

  ‘I didn't see it happen, no, but…’ Flora lowered her voice, adding, ‘Excuse me, but are you quite certain that he fell?’

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you say that?’ He frowned and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fishing float.

  ‘Well,’ Flora began, turning over the details in her head. ‘If he fell forwards, the way he’s lying now, how did he get that wound on the back of his head?’

  ‘He most probably hit the handrail on the way down, or perhaps the edge of one of the steps.’ The doctor’s gaze settled on her for the briefest pause before sliding away in dismissal. ‘They’re metal and quite sharp. Perfectly capable of inflicting such an injury.’

  ‘Maybe. But if so, wouldn’t he have tried to save himself?’ Flora tried again. ‘His arms are by his sides as if—’

  ‘You’ve clearly had a shock, Miss Maguire.’ Dr Fletcher rose to his feet and stepped in front of her, blocking her view. ‘I suggest you return to your suite while we deal with this.’

  Flora bridled. ‘Why do you keep trying to get rid of me? I’m not hysterical. A bit queasy maybe, but quite calm. And I did ask a perfectly reasonable question.’ She summoned her most appealing smile, then braced herself for more censure as another set of heavy footsteps approached. However the startled ‘Good grief, what’s happened?’ came in a voice both familiar and reassuring as the young man of the night before pushed through the knot of curious sailors and came to her side.

  ‘Mr Harrington, thank goodness.’ Flora grabbed hold of his arm, conscious of his warm, firm muscles beneath the fabric of his sleeve. ‘I found this man on the deck.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He’s dead, and not only will the crew not answer my questions, they keep trying to make me leave.’

  ‘The lady is a trifle distraught, Mr, er
—’ Officer Martin took Flora’s arm with one hand and saluted Bunny with the other, a brow raised in enquiry.

  ‘Harrington,’ Bunny added, sliding an arm around Flora’s waist, though she was in no danger of falling.

  She left it there, his touch comforting and safe as the nausea she thought had gone returned.

  ‘Were you present when it happened?’ Bunny repeated Officer Martin’s question.

  ‘No, he was just lying here. I didn’t know he was dead at first, I—’ A metallic taste filled her mouth and she pressed a hand to her lips until she was able to speak again. When she did, her voice was calmer than she felt. ‘The doctor said he fell down the steps, but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Coming upon a body like that could upset anyone, Mr Harrington, especially a young lady.’ Officer Martin gently took her free arm again and tried to pull her away.

  ‘I am not upset!’ Flora tugged her arm away. But if that was true, why was she shaking?

  ‘It appears to be a simple, but regrettable accident, Mr Harrington.’ Officer Martin took a step back, his hands held palms upwards in surrender. ‘Easily done when one isn’t used to the motions of the ship. Added to which, the companionway is quite steep.’

  ‘Are you saying fatal accidents occur often on board ships?’ Bunny asked, tightening his hold on Flora’s waist.

  ‘Not at all, sir!’ he raised his voice, evidently affronted. ‘Falls do happen, especially in rough seas, but I cannot say we have many deaths. This gentleman must have been extremely unlucky.’

  Flora frowned. Was his bland reassurance an attempt to shield the other passengers? Or to allay blame that the companionways weren’t safe? A metal rail ran around three sides of the hole, but the steps were thin and metal, thus quite slippery. They had also been washed recently, judging by the sheen of water that clung to the treads.

  ‘Do either of you know who he is?’ Dr Fletcher asked without looking up. He had completed an examination of the body’s hands and feet and now rummaged through the man’s pockets.

  Flora hesitated. ‘N-no, I don’t know him.’ Her being witness to the dead man’s conversation with the lady in the claret coat hardly counted as an acquaintance.

  ‘His name is Parnell,’ Bunny interjected. ‘Frank, I think.’

  ‘You knew him, Mr Harrington?’ Officer Martin’s expression hardened to suspicion.

  ‘Not exactly.’ Bunny’s sigh showed he resented this implication. ‘We met for the first time at dinner last evening. He was travelling in the company of a young lady. An actress, I believe.’

  ‘I see. Well now if you would excuse me, sir.’ Dr Fletcher beckoned two members of the crew, both of whom proceeded to manoeuvre the dead man onto a sheet of tarpaulin that had appeared from somewhere as if by magic.

  ‘Shouldn’t the captain see the body before it’s moved?’ Flora whispered.

  ‘I’ve no idea what the procedure is.’ Flora felt rather than saw Bunny’s shrug. ‘I assume they know what they are doing.’ He turned and addressed the doctor. ‘Where are you taking him?’

  ‘To my office for the time being.’ Dr Fletcher threw over his shoulder as he set off after the sailors.

  ‘It appears the matter is entirely out of our hands now.’ Bunny sighed, then turned back to Flora. ‘Would you allow me to escort you back to your suite?’

  ‘But—’ she halted and exhaled, resigned. After all, she hadn’t known the dead man, and whatever had happened to him was none of her concern. ‘All right, if you insist. I mean – thank you.’ She accepted his proffered arm, and started to climb the steps, pausing halfway up, her gaze roving the metal treads.

  ‘Are you looking for something?’ He halted beside her.

  ‘There’s no blood on these steps,’ Flora said slowly. ‘Or on the deck. In fact there’s not a drop anywhere.’

  ‘Perhaps one of the sailors cleaned it up?’ Bunny gave the steps a cursory search, a thumb and forefinger gripped to one arm of his spectacles. ‘They wouldn’t want to leave it there for the passengers to see.’

  ‘No one came near with anything resembling a mop. I would have seen them,’ Flora murmured as she resumed her climb. ‘Besides, there was no blood to remove in the first place.’

  Her confusion made the walk along the deck a silent one. Why did no one else wonder about the absence of blood from a wound deep enough to kill a man?

  If indeed that’s what killed him.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Thank you for escorting me, Mr Harrington, I shall be perfectly all right now.’ Fighting sudden dizziness, Flora inserted herself between Bunny and the door of her suite.

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ Bunny pushed the door open and indicated she should enter ahead of him. ‘However, you look decidedly shaky, if I may say so. I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I abandoned you now.’

  ‘Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for a while.’ The door to Eddy’s room was still closed and she raised a finger to her lips. ‘He’s still asleep, so if you could try not to wake him.’

  He nodded and tiptoed past Eddy’s door, lifting each foot in a pantomime that made her smile.

  Discouraging him became too much of an effort, and appreciating his kindness, she sank into the thick cushion of the nearest wicker chair, her hands thrust into the folds of her skirt to still their shaking while he closed the door.

  ‘It must have been a dreadful shock finding the body like that,’ Bunny said gently.

  ‘Actually I was more curious than shocked at first. That is, until I saw that gash on his head.’ She motioned him into the chair opposite. ‘I imagine it must have been worse for you as you knew him.’

  ‘Not really.’ He tugged up his trousers and sat, dwarfing the chair. ‘After dinner, the others at the table repaired to the saloon for drinks. I only remember him because he instigated a game of poker.’

  A light knock came at the door, and Flora half-rose, glad of a reason to break eye contact. The intensity of his stare made her uncomfortable, though she wasn’t sure why.

  ‘I expect that will be my morning tea.’

  ‘I’ll go.’ Bunny halted her with an upraised hand, leaving her with little choice but to relax back into her seat.

  She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to banish the image of the man on deck. His prone body lying on the boards merged with that of a woman from her past. That she was Flora’s mother was deeply ingrained, though the circumstances remained indistinct. Flora always saw her in a dream that ambushed her at odd times, leaving her with more questions than she could answer. That struck her as strange, because there was no blood in this instance, only what was matted into the man’s dark hair, when her dream always featured blood; a good deal of it.

  ‘The stewardess thought I had come to the wrong suite.’ Bunny’s cheerful voice brought her sharply back to the present. ‘I doubt she expected to have the door answered by a man. Shall I pour?’ He hovered above the loaded tray on the table between them.

  She nodded, comforted by a familiar smell of tea that wafted into the room, reminding her of the Cleeve Abbey nursery in the afternoons. At first try he misjudged the arc of hot water and slopped some into a saucer. ‘What were you saying about the blood?’ he asked, dabbing at the wet tray clumsily with a napkin.

  Flora attempted a smile. ‘There was none. Not on the companionway, the deck or the handrail. What do you think about that? Did the man’s death look like the result of an accident to you?’

  ‘I didn’t have time to form much of an opinion.’ He adjusted his glasses, as if taking time to think. ‘What with those sailors in such a hurry to take him away.’ He handed her a full cup, a finger pointed to the sugar bowl.

  ‘I thought it was odd, that’s all.’ She shook her head at the sugar, watching as he added a spoonful to his own cup which he stirred slowly. The thought struck her: he had nice hands. Slender though not feminine, with neat, well-kept fingernails.

  ‘Flora?’ The word made her jump, his face giving the impression he had said it more
than once before she heard. ‘The doctor didn’t agree though, did he?’

  ‘He didn’t consider anything I had to say. But then I suppose the last thing the crew would want to put about on the first day at sea is a possible murder. That would certainly upset the passengers.’

  ‘Murder?’ His eyes glinted with surprise, magnified by his spectacles. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘I-I don’t know.’ Flora’s confidence waned at his open scepticism. ‘Maybe Dr Fletcher knows his business, and Mr Parnell did fall.’ She met his gaze over the top of her teacup. ‘Incidentally, what were you doing up so early?’

  ‘I was on my way to check on Matilda.’ His mouth tilted up slightly at one side. ‘Why? Did you think I was on deck pushing card sharps down companionways?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She tutted, mildly exasperated he should suggest such a thing. ‘Unless you lost money to him, that is.’

  ‘Should I be offended you think me capable of such a thing?’ His pale brows lifted slightly.

  ‘I don’t not at all.’ Heat flooded her face. ‘I apologise, my sense of humour can be somewhat dark at times. Comes from being around Eddy so much. I gather you’re not a gambler?’

  ‘Definitely not.’ He relaxed again, apparently forgiving her. ‘I work too hard to risk my money on games of chance.’ The fact he was a man of high moral principle pleased her, for reasons she couldn’t yet fathom.

  ‘What was the late Mr Parnell like?’ Flora asked.

  Bunny thought for a moment. ‘Early thirties, dark, heavy-featured with thick black hair.’

  Flora had gathered that much for herself. ‘I meant his personality. Aggressive, self-effacing, unassuming?’

  ‘Well, from what I could make out, not the last two I suspect. He talked rather a lot at dinner, where he spoke with a Brooklyn accent. He claimed to know London, which didn’t seem likely to me, though I have no reason to disbelieve him.’