There was something about the box that made me look at it again. Something was wrong. It normally came on board with sturdy straps holding it fast both ways. But both straps were missing. The lock was hanging loose.
I didn’t want to open the box. Something told me not to touch it. I needed a witness, support, someone to hold my hand.
Someone like Richard Norton, our ex-Marines security officer, the man in charge of security on board the Countess. He was the nearest we had to a policeman.
He answered the phone immediately as if he had been waiting for my call. I told him that the box looked funny.
‘Don’t touch it,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in five minutes.’
I went back into my office and made myself some coffee. I needed it, black and strong. I checked my emails but my heart wasn’t in it and none of them got answers, not yet. My brain wasn’t functioning.
The security officer arrived. He was always in a well-pressed khaki uniform. It made him look different from crew officers and other personnel. At six feet three inches with a severe crew cut, he already looked a lot different.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve a funny feeling …’
‘Women’s intuition? At least they found his box of tricks. Reg Hawkins was spitting blood last night because it was lost. Stand back. I’ll open it.’
Richard Norton prised open the heavy lid and it fell back, jolting the whole contraption. He glanced inside and drew away hastily. He looked at me, pushing me away with his arm, closing the lid.
‘And he’s still spitting blood,’ he said.
Five - At Sea
Word spread around the ship like wildfire. And it wasn’t only because Merlin the Magician was a popular entertainer. It was because he had been sitting on table two, second sitting. For two people to die on the same table was a little unnerving. I kept smiling. We did not want an anxiety disorder spreading. We had already disembarked the pilot once through the breakwater, so there was no question of turning back. The formalities were now the responsibility of the ship. The lovely Countess was not a jinxed ship. Nothing had happened on board on other cruises. It was table two, second sitting, that was jinxed. An elderly couple asked to be moved. They weren’t taking any chances with their anniversary cruise. I had a feeling Graham Ward was going to get other requests.
It seemed an age ago since we were happily berthed at Palma, hot but content. Lunch was a vague memory. No one would explain to me how Reg Hawkins had died. Richard Norton had immediately secured the area and the night’s show was cancelled.
The dancers reacted with the usual mixture of theatricals. Some had hysterics, some felt sick, others went and had a drink in a bar. But everyone was talking about him. Rumours spread like melting butter on a hot plate.
Instead the classical pianist gave a concert in the Galaxy Lounge, Greig and Gershwin which suited all tastes. The music sounded glorious, piano notes tinkling like heavenly drops of sound. I was sorry I could only look in, spread my smile around but not stay for long. The pianist was in the cabin next to mine, so I’d met him briefly walking along the corridor. I was making statements and writing reports and showing my face in all the bars, reassuring passengers that all was being taken care of in every department.
More rumours began circulating. It was a heart attack. Another heart attack? But how did he get inside his own box of tricks? Was he checking the contents and fell in? Somewhat unlikely. He was knifed, said a rumour. Blood everywhere.
I would have liked to talk to Dr Mallory if he was in a talking mood. But he had a hospital full of patients. The passenger who tripped down the step from the coach had broken her ankle. There were several sprains from slips on board, and a number of sunstroke patients. One severe case of sunburn. A bald-headed passenger who went ashore without a hat. There were warnings in all our literature and regularly on the cabin television, but some people think they have divine and heavenly protection from the sun’s rays.
I went to see the woman passenger who now sported half a leg in plaster. She was adamant that she did not want to be flown home.
‘No way,’ she said, with a distinct North American drawl. ‘I’m on this cruise and I’m staying. I like it here. I’ll get around in a wheelchair. There are the lifts to everywhere and plenty of ramps over the doorsteps on to the decks. It would be nice to cash in on the sympathy vote.’
‘That’s the spirit, Mrs Laurent,’ I said. ‘I’ll find a rota of stewards who will help you get around, particularly to meals. You don’t want to develop huge arm muscles, propelling yourself. And Excursion Sales are offering you some free excursions if you feel well enough to take them. They’ll make doubly sure you get on and off safely, and that the wheelchair is stored on the coach.’
‘Well, that’s very nice,’ said Mrs Laurent. ‘I’d like that. I don’t want to miss out on everything. As it is, I can hardly sunbathe and only get one leg brown.’
‘You could always even things up with a fake tan when you get home,’ I said. ‘They are surprisingly good these days.’
‘Thank you so much for coming to see me, Casey,’ she said. She was a bobbed platinum blonde, mid-fifties, a racy looking lady, lots of glittery jewellery. ‘It’s good not to be forgotten. And don’t worry, I’m not going to sue Conway. It was my own fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
I made a note to visit Mrs Laurent again and soon.
And that was a reassurance. Passengers sued for anything if they could get away with it. We had one passenger who sued over a fly in her soup. I swear she brought it aboard and dunked it in the crème de celery herself.
We were now heading into the Atlantic. There was a long stretch of sea days ahead. Passengers got grumpy with boredom. So we laid on a programme of activities that made the mind spin. We had ballroom dancing, aerobics, deck quoits, mini golf, port lectures, history lectures, creative writing for the would-be authors, bingo, trivial quiz, a cooking demonstration by the chief chef, how to make cocktails by the barman, how to carve ice by an iceman.
The ship’s newspaper, Countess Today, gave a full itinerary. It took half an hour to read it. Some passengers put it straight into the bin and then complained if they missed a film or a show.
Cocktail shaking was always popular. The barman made sure everyone got a generous sample before lunch. His Fuzzy Naval was a dream and his Peach Schnapps and orange juice was simply sensational. No shortage of volunteers for the tasting session.
I had not seen Dr Mallory all day. Passengers kept asking me questions that I couldn’t answer. I wanted to be kept informed. I sent him an email via the office computer. It was quicker than trying to look for him.
‘Dr M,’ I emailed. ‘Kindly keep me informed re Reg Hawkins. I have a dozen questions a day to answer. KC Jones.’
Answer: ‘Dear Casey. Say heart attack. SM.’
This was not good enough. I didn’t have time to beard him in his den. All the entertainment had had to be rescheduled. Happily everyone on board was co-operative.
We were ploughing through endless dark-blue, white-tipped waves. Some shipping passed on the horizon. This was the dolphin watch, too early for the whale watch. Passengers leaned over the rails for hours, video cameras cradled at the ready. I would do the same, but then I was sea-witched. I loved the sea, the water and the waves, the endless blue. It was my medication, my soul, my dream.
‘Casey Jones,’ Samuel said, taking a rail spot near mine. ‘How are you coping? We didn’t expect this, did we? So early on in the cruise.’
‘Where is Reg Hawkins now?’
‘Refrigerated alongside Mr Foster. Fortunately we have plenty of space. This is a very big ship below decks. We do nothing until we get back to Southampton when we hand him over to the authorities. I’m not qualified to do more than the most preliminary post-mortem. As far as I could see, it was a heart attack.’
‘So, what else did you find? How long had he been in the box?’
‘I found nothing. Not long, I thi
nk. A few unexplained scratches.’
‘And who put him there?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not a detective. He didn’t have a label attached to him, giving that information. I’m a plain, ordinary bedside doctor.’
‘Haven’t you made any enquiries? Where was the box found for a start? I’d be asking questions all over the ship. The whole business is shrouded in mystery,’ I said, almost angrily.
‘You solve it then. You’re the expert. It’s only coincidental, circumstantial,’ said Samuel Mallory, dismissing the whole affair. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Two heart attacks on the same table? It’s not possible. Passengers are asking to be moved.’
‘I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t sit there either.’ Samuel Mallory was not joking. He looked perfectly serious. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit fraught.’
‘Of course, I’m fraught. It is not exactly the perfect beginning to a cruise but it happens. It’ll get better from now. We’ve the Caribbean ahead of us. And before then, Maderia. Everyone loves the Caribbean, all those sun-drenched beaches and waving palm trees. We’ve lots of Americans on board, determined to enjoy themselves.’
‘Would you like a drink at a beach café? A swim on a deserted beach in the moonlight?’
‘No way. What about all those other women you have been chatting up? The swarm of blondes. Surely they come first in the seduction stakes?’
‘Let me know if you change your mind. It isn’t as if I have to book a patch of sand.’
‘I haven’t made up my mind.’
‘So I thought. Lack of feedback or confidence. I have pills for it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I also have patients to attend to.’
‘And I have passengers. Don’t let me delay you.’
I took the lift down to the Galaxy Lounge where a small group of musicians were playing dance music for the dance class. They were the officially elderly dancing ladies, pin thin bodies, stretched tanned skin, their partners even older and less energetic. They were using the dance floor as their practice ground, twirling and shuffling to the beat of the music. The women’s clothes were flamboyant and gorgeous. They looked like tropical birds, still managing to walk in impossible heels. The traditional crossbar helped.
‘You haven’t lost your enthusiasm for dancing?’ I asked a couple who were taking a breather at a table. Mineral water on the table. No overspending here.
‘Never,’ they said, almost in unison. ‘It’s what keeps us young and fit. We love dancing.’
I rarely had time to dance, sometimes on the last night, but even then there was masses of paperwork to catch up on, sales forms to be signed, before everyone disembarked. And the arrival of the next batch in the pipeline.
It wasn’t easy to dance on a floor that occasionally tilted. A few unscheduled lurches caught them unawares and several couples gave up, preferring the terra firma of an upholstered seat.
The bravehearts were jiving to Glenn Miller. You could see they had learned to jive at post-Second-World-War canteen dances. They were reliving their youth. They had so much energy.
‘We met at a dance,’ said the same couple, still in unison. ‘We danced to this very tune. “In The Mood”, it’s called.’
Nostalgia tugged at them and they couldn’t resist the music or the memories. They got up and began quite a spirited jive, considering their combined age, with complicated steps and turns. The floor filled up again as the music reminded the couples of flirtations and romances of long ago.
A tall, elegant woman stood beside me. She was not a gaudy bird of paradise but more of a dove, her silvery grey lace dress the last word in high fashion, but I couldn’t put a known label on it.
‘I once met a gorgeous American GI dancing to this tune,’ she said. ‘The GIs always had such wonderful manners, and of course they had chocolates and nylon stockings which were practically unobtainable in England.’
‘So did you become a GI bride?’ I asked, more as a joke than being personal.
‘I often wished I had,’ she said with a smile. ‘It might have been more fun than living in Pinner and working in London. I had a choice. Work in London or work in Paris. And I picked the wrong city, out of misplaced loyalty. I stayed in England. This was after the war, of course.’
‘So when did you meet the GI?’
‘I don’t remember the year. I escaped from France before the war ended. A little disorientated. War does that to you.’
Escaped from France? I hoped this interesting woman was going to tell me more but she spotted some friends across the dance floor and went to join them. I noticed she had a slight limp and sat down quite quickly. She was not intending to dance. A stewardess came over and took her order. The woman looked in my direction and with a slight, very French inclination, offered me a drink. But I shook my head with a smile and a ‘no thank you’.
The ballroom tutors, Tony and Janet, were doing the rounds, dancing with wallflowers of both sexes. They worked non-stop on the cruises and ran a dance school in Surrey. Classes every sea day, practices, and they always turned up at the evening dances to encourage their sail-alone pupils to find partners.
‘Bet you’ve got your hands full,’ said Janet. She was a neat, dark-haired woman, always wearing pretty pastel clothes. ‘You’ve got that gap to fill. What a headache for you. Will they fly someone out to Maderia? Pick the ship up there?’
‘Head Office are working on it. Not easy at such short notice. But we need someone for the long sea leg to the Caribbean. And we don’t pick up Estelle Grayson till Barbados.’
‘Oh Lord, not that woman? I didn’t realize the prima donna was joining us again. I shall keep out of her way. She’s always trying to get me to choreograph her numbers. She can’t dance and never will. Wishful thinking. She has three legs and one of those is short.’
I had to grin. It was such a good description of the temperamental singer. Careful, Casey. Don’t say anything which might get back to Estelle. I needed a fresh pair of kid gloves every day she was on board.
‘She’ll want a seat in the Windsor Dining Room straight away, at the best table with lots of admiring passengers to buy her CDs.’
‘Well, there’s plenty of room on table two, second sitting,’ I said. ‘No problem there. I can arrange that immediately.’
It was not the kindest of thoughts.
Six – Maderia
The magical island of Madeira was appearing on the horizon as a smudge. I remembered the first time I had visited the island as a young girl. It had been a different place then, embroiled in politics, with posters and slogans plastered over every wall in the capital of Funchal. The wild fennel place. I’d been frightened by the feeling of violence.
It had all changed since then and was back to being an island of flowers, jacaranda trees and bougainvillea, open markets and canal walks. I knew the passengers were going to love the ancient rainforests, green gorges and sparkling waterfalls cooling the air, though maybe not the three rivers struggling through the centre of the town. There were handsome old palaces and fortresses from different eras along the front, with fine Portuguese architecture, not far from the quayside, many now museums or army headquarters or government buildings.
And they were going to have an evening in port which was always enjoyable. To eat at a local restaurant for a change or wander along the sea front promenade or the palm-tree lined avenues, enjoying the lights, the stalls and the balmy warm late-night air, blown from North Africa. Countess would not be leaving till midnight. Getting everyone back on board would be a headache. They might linger over a glass or two and lose track of time.
Especially if they went in search of the famous Madeira wine, a dark brown fortified wine. There were dozens of wine-tasting shops in Funchal. Madeira came in four main types — all very potent — a dry wine, Verdelho, Bual and Malmsey, all dessert wines. Malmsey had been the favourite in past centuries. History was in that drink.
The Countess had entered the harbour of Funchal earl
y that morning and swung 180 degrees before mooring starboard side to the quay. The temperature was seventy degrees Fahrenheit or twenty-one degrees Celsius.
I stood at the quayside as passengers alighted from the gangway and reminded them of the departure time. There was a board with the last time for boarding chalked on it but many walked past, not looking, more excited by a new place to explore and keen to go shopping. Many never got further than the nearest café or the statue of Henry the Navigator. The overlooking Parque de Sante Catarina was another favourite place and not far to walk. It had a good view of the harbour and the town. A yacht once owned by the Beatles was now a floating restaurant.
I was swamped in paperwork, as usual, so it was some time before I could go ashore. No time to go to the lush sub-tropical interior, or nearby Camara de Lobos, the fishing village where Winston Churchill liked to paint. Although I knew that there was still squalor in the narrow streets.
Madeira had been cleaned up. The flowers on sale in the markets were something special. I wanted to buy huge armfuls of intoxicating colour. I took a taxi up to the Jardim Botanico in Caminho do Meio, and was swept away by the flowers and the astounding views, especially the spectacular viaduct soaring over the steep valley. I could stay there forever. I was far too late for the early morning fish market or the flower market. Though I wanted some flowers.
‘So, you like flowers?’ It was Dr Samuel Mallory, leaning over the rail beside me that separated us from a steep drop on to the twisting road below.
‘My mother loved flowers. She grew them. It’s inherited.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘Sadly, no. She has died. I miss her.’ He did not pursue the subject.
‘Have you seen the tropical bird garden, those primeval parrots, or the garden with all the orchids? Apparently 3,000 different varieties. A Madeiran speciality.’
‘There isn’t time to see everything.’
Second Sitting Page 5