Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  “Perhaps I should show you, Mr. Sinclair.” The captain took down the chain so they could step through. “Maybe you should stay back, Miss Higgins.”

  When Edna made no move to do so, Clyde grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. Rowland followed Madding closer to a lifeboat, which had been draped with a large canvas. A crewman, who stood directly in front of it, stepped back to allow them access.

  “This is Dr. Yates—the Aquitania’s medical officer,” Madding introduced brusquely.

  Rowland nodded. The physician seemed very young—red haired and freckle faced… and visibly nervous.

  “All right, Yates,” the captain instructed. “Proceed.”

  The doctor pulled back the canvas.

  Rowland was aware that both Madding and Yates were watching his reaction carefully.

  Urquhart was in the boat. He was dead. Still in his dinner suit, the Englishman’s shirt was soaked crimson, and the bottom of the lifeboat was pooled with blood. His eyes were open, vacant. His face was bruised, but it had been attended to—his nose still bandaged. Protruding from his neck was a silver-handled walking stick.

  Edna, who had come forward, stifled a scream. “Orville!”

  “Dr. Yates,” Madding prompted.

  Yates put a handkerchief over the handle of the stick and pulled it out. It squelched. The stick had been snapped, splintered. The jagged end had been used to impale the unfortunate Urquhart.

  “Is this your walking stick, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Yes, I think it probably is.”

  3

  TUTANKHAMEN

  Fresh Objects from the Tomb

  CAIRO

  Among the other objects is a beautiful wooden casket completely covered with ivory having as a lid one whole piece of ivory whereon is delicately engraved a garden scene with the King and Queen in the centre and little children picking fruit at the foot—one of the most exquisite objects found in the tomb. There are also samples of beadwork, very Victorian in appearance.

  The Guardian

  Milton was the first to break the heavy silence. “You couldn’t possibly think Rowly…,” he started.

  “I treated Mr. Urquhart for a broken nose and other injuries just after eleven last night,” Yates interrupted, holding the remnants of Rowland’s stick. “We have to deduce that he was killed sometime between then and now.”

  Brilliant! The doctor fancied himself a detective. Rowland shook his head.

  “You understand that we are still three days from port and the authorities, Mr. Sinclair.” Madding still gazed at him. “I am responsible for the safety of my passengers.”

  “I had nothing to do with this, Captain,” Rowland said calmly.

  “It is your walking stick…”

  “I left my stick somewhere last night,” Rowland responded. “I had already dealt with Mr. Urquhart—I had no reason to kill him. I certainly would not have chosen such a barbaric way of doing so.”

  “How does one kill a man politely, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Dr. Yates,” Rowland said, beginning to get mildly alarmed by the situation. “Would you give the handle of my stick a sharp twist and pull on it?”

  Yates looked for the captain’s consent and, having got it, did so. The handle pulled off completely to reveal a six-inch blade which slid into the hollowed shaft of the stick.

  “An interesting walking stick, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “It was a gift from a friend who finds such curiosities amusing,” Rowland replied, without so much as glancing at Milton. The poet had found the stick somewhere in France, just as Rowland was discarding his crutches. “My point is, Captain, why would I run a man through with a piece of splintered wood if I knew I held a blade in my hands? Whoever killed Urquhart had no idea that he held a weapon.”

  “Where were you last night, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “In my suite.”

  “Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?”

  Rowland turned towards his travelling companions.

  “We were all there,” Clyde attested, stepping closer to Rowland. “We drank three bottles of port between us and, by then, we weren’t really in a fit condition to go anywhere.”

  “There was that valet,” Milton threw in. “He came up to get our suits for cleaning. We were still wearing them, so he waited. We’d had a few by then so the poor bloke was waiting a while.”

  Captain Madding sighed.

  “So…,” ventured Edna. “What do we do now?”

  “Are you going to throw Rowly in the brig?” Milton laughed.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Isaacs.” Madding was curt. “And I fail to see what is amusing. A man is dead.”

  Milton stopped grinning.

  “What about Orville?” Edna asked, flinching as she looked at the body again. “You can’t leave him here. Someone should tell Annie and Jiddu…”

  “We’ll see to Mr. Urquhart,” Madding assured her. He stared hard at Rowland.

  Rowland looked around at the open sea. “Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

  “Considering what a louse Urquhart proved to be,” Milton proffered, “I’d reckon he had other enemies on board, Captain… or at least people who knew him better than we did.”

  Madding said nothing for a moment, and then, “I shall let you return to your breakfast. I trust I will have the pleasure of your company at my table this evening.”

  Rowland looked down, smiling. “It would be an honour, Captain.”

  And so, the interview was concluded.

  “I’m not sure I understand why the captain wants to have dinner with us?” Clyde muttered as they made their way back towards the first class deck.

  “Why not?” Milton returned. “We’re charming.”

  “He wants to keep an eye on us… well, me anyway.” Rowland looked back and tipped his hat to the crewman who followed them. “Can’t blame him really—they did find my stick in a man’s neck.” He put his arm around Edna. “You all right, Ed?”

  “Of course I am,” she snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Well, you had a lot more to do with him… I thought you might…”

  “I didn’t like him!” She sounded angry. Rowland left it.

  Edna pulled idly at the fingertips of the long black gloves that clad her arms. A wide silver bracelet with Egyptian motif fell loosely around her wrist, and a long scarab bead necklace hung below the low neckline of her evening gown. The latest popular revival of all things Egyptian had begun in the last decade with the excavation of Tutankhamen’s tomb, but Edna had only just discovered the fashion. In her usual way, she embraced the craze with childlike zeal.

  She knew Rowland was watching her, sketching. It didn’t trouble or embarrass her. She was a life model who lived with artists—she had long become accustomed to scrutiny. Rowland drew her often and, she thought, rather well.

  “You know, it would be rather fun to paint you against the sea… a nod to Botticelli’s Venus…,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  Edna laughed, knowing well the nude painting to which he referred. “No, Rowly, it’s too cold.”

  Clyde was struggling with his bow tie, cursing under his breath. Milton was rifling through drawers, searching for cufflinks.

  “Rowly,” he shouted from the other room, “do you mind if I…?”

  “Go ahead. Try to choose ones that match this time.”

  They were about to dine at the captain’s table. A crewman had been posted discreetly in the corridor outside the Reynolds Suite and another followed them about the Aquitania. Officially, Orville Urquhart’s death was an accident, but rumours were rife. The atmosphere on board was tense.

  “You going to be all right without your stick, mate?” Clyde asked, as he emerged with his bow slightly askew, but tied.

  “I’ll be fine.” Rowland replied, determined that he would be so.

  Clyde raised his brows sceptically, but he did not argue.

  “Oh Rowly,” Edna sighed. Rowland ha
d already set back his recuperation a couple of times by refusing to give his injury time.

  “I’m fine,” Rowland repeated without looking up.

  In time, they were all ready, and proceeded to the dining room where they were ushered to Madding’s table. The captain stood to greet them, gazing appreciatively at the young sculptress.

  “Miss Higgins,” he said as she sat down. “You are without doubt a shining ornament to the Aquitania.”

  Edna accepted the tribute with the practised grace of one who often received such compliments. She even managed to blush a little.

  Madding introduced the other guests at his table. They were dining with an American couple, the Hickmans, whose well-coiffed, obviously unmarried daughters seemed excessively pleased to see them. Also present was the clergyman who had taken such offence at Jiddu Krishnamurti the previous evening. Bishop Hanrahan was accompanied by two lesser-ranked men of the church. The taller was a fair-haired, bespectacled priest, introduced as Father Murphy. The second, clean-cut and square-jawed, was Father Bryan.

  Rowland sighed as he regarded the trio of black-cassocked men standing by their chairs like rigid sentinels of virtue—the company promised to be awkward.

  Bishop Hanrahan glared at them. Milton already looked belligerent, and Clyde nervous.

  Edna was ushered to the chair between the Bishop’s young frocked offsiders. She smiled devastatingly at each, ignoring their holy status and treating them as men. Rowland smiled as he observed the effect.

  Milton and Clyde were each seated with a Miss Hickman to their left, and Rowland directed to the chair on Milton’s right, beside the captain. He assumed it was so that Madding could just reach out and grab him should he try to kill anyone.

  “Will I say grace then, Captain Madding?” Hanrahan asked with no question in his voice.

  Madding looked startled. Grace was usually the captain’s prerogative.

  Hanrahan began before he could reply, launching into prayer in a booming Irish accent.

  “Bless, O Lord, this food we are about to eat; and we pray thee, O God, that it may be good for body and soul; and if there be any poor creature, hungry or thirsty, walking along the road, direct them to walk into us…”

  “We’re on a boat,” Milton muttered for Rowland’s ear. “They’d drown.”

  “… that we can share the food with them as thee share thy gifts with all of us.”

  Rowland straightened, happy to move on… but Hanrahan was not finished.

  “Bring thy righteous fury down upon those among us who have strayed from thy word and commit blasphemy in the name of evil doctrines and false prophets, who consort with the devil and summon the spirits of the dead.”

  Again, Rowland raised his head, only to have to lower his eyes once more.

  “Remind the sinful, the unchaste and immoral of the power of thy wrath, O Lord, instil in them a fear of eternity and bring them to thy divine justice. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  Rowland looked up, carefully, unsure whether Hanrahan had finally concluded. It seemed he had. The clergymen were busy crossing themselves. The extraordinary grace left the table in a stunned silence. Under his breath, Rowland thanked his Protestant God that it was over.

  “Bishop Hanrahan and his colleagues are on their way to Sydney,” Madding said in an attempt to initiate conversation as the first course was served.

  “How wonderful!” Edna directed her enthusiasm at Father Bryan. “Sydney is the most delightful city—you’ll have a fabulous time.”

  “No doubt, it will have its share of souls to be saved from eternal damnation,” cut in Bishop Hanrahan.

  Edna looked at him blankly. “Oh—yes… I’m sure you’ll find one or two at Government House.”

  Milton laughed. Clyde looked to the ceiling in disbelief. The bishop glowered, moving his eyes from the sculptress to Milton Isaacs. He squinted at the poet, trying to make out the shadow of the word Red, in the subdued light of the dining room. His upper lip curled with distaste.

  “What, in God’s name, would you be having on your forehead, son?”

  “My principles,” Milton replied coldly.

  “Oh God,” Clyde groaned audibly.

  Hanrahan inhaled. He reddened. “Mannix warned me I’d be finding your kind in the colony!” he said, none too quietly. “Captain, it seems it is not sufficient that you allow black heathens aboard, but now you’ll be seating men of the true Church with Lenin’s godless spawn and a Jezebel…”

  The Hickman girls twittered at the last.

  “Now, Your Grace…,” began Madding.

  “I will not be breaking bread in such company!” The bishop stood, sending his chair clattering behind him. He glared at Milton, who winked in return.

  “You, sir,” Hanrahan’s finger shook with rage as he pointed at the long-haired poet, “are an abomination, an affront!”

  He stalked out of the dining room. Father Murphy got up reluctantly, muttered a hasty apology, and followed. They all looked expectantly at Father Bryan. He glanced at Edna, and continued to eat his soup.

  “Well, that went well,” Rowland said as he too returned to his meal. Captain Madding grunted. It took several minutes for the muted shock in the dining room to dissipate.

  They dealt with the remaining awkwardness by ignoring it. Indeed the first course was not yet finished before Milton was thrilling the Hickman girls with tales of the savage Australian outback. He paraphrased shamelessly from the work of Paterson, passing off verse as his personal experience. Of course, the Hickmans were American and oblivious to the Australian balladeer. To them, Milton Isaacs cut a rugged, romantic figure.

  Clyde snorted occasionally, but otherwise did nothing to shatter the illusion. Edna was busy bewitching Father Bryan. Rowland found himself talking with Captain Madding. Initially, neither mentioned Orville Urquhart, though at times it almost seemed he was sitting between them.

  Unexpectedly, considering the circumstances, both found the other good company. Rowland suspected that Godfrey Madding was interrogating him, but he did not particularly object. He had nothing to hide, and he was curious as to how his walking stick finished up in Urquhart’s neck.

  “So, you are not a Theosophist?” Madding asked.

  “No.”

  “But you don’t object to them?”

  “We Protestants don’t get quite so worked up as the good bishop.”

  Madding stroked his short naval beard. “Yes, His Grace is rather direct.”

  “Eloquent, though,” Rowland said on reflection.

  “You knew Urquhart?” Madding asked, lowering his voice.

  “Not well. He had been pursuing Miss Higgins since we came on board.”

  “And did that offend you?”

  Rowland glanced up at Edna who was laughing—an unrestrained bubbling giggle, completely inelegant, entirely uninhibited. “Not at all,” he said. “You’d have to be dead not to pursue Miss Higgins.” He stopped, realising what he’d just said. He smiled ruefully. “That was probably unfortunately put.”

  Madding nodded. “Quite.”

  “What I meant to say,” Rowland explained, “is that Miss Higgins has many admirers. My issue with Mr. Urquhart is that he chose to press his admiration without consent. If she welcomed his attentions, he and I would have had no quarrel.”

  “You broke his nose, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “And settled the matter.”

  Madding sighed. “I am inclined to take you at your word, sir, but no other candidate presents and this is my ship.”

  Rowland nodded. He could see Madding’s dilemma. “I shall speak to Mrs. Besant, if you like,” he offered. “She may know more of Urquhart’s background…”

  “I would rather you didn’t tell her that Urquhart was murdered,” Madding said, frowning. “The last thing we need is for the passengers to panic.”

  Rowland smiled. “Mrs. Besant is clairvoyant,” he said. “Urquhart’s probably having dinner with her now.”

  “Yo
u believe that infernal nonsense?”

  “I believe Mrs. Besant is rather astute and extremely perceptive. I doubt, very much, that she’ll believe Urquhart slipped and hit his head.”

  Madding thought for a moment. “Very well,” he said finally. “It may help to know more about Urquhart. I’ve radioed New York and London—there are all manner of jurisdictional problems on top of everything else.”

  “Do you know where he went after he left the infirmary?” Rowland asked.

  The captain shook his head. “According to Yates, he was feeling rather sorry for himself.”

  “I’ve been thinking about my stick—where I left it,” Rowland said thoughtfully. “I had it as I went out onto the promenade… Clyde—Mr. Watson Jones— mentioned it at one point. I’d say that may have been where I left it.”

  “I know,” replied Madding.

  Rowland was surprised.

  “My staff captain remembers that you didn’t have it when you left the promenade. He recalls you using the wall to steady yourself.”

  “Oh.” Rowland hadn’t realised he had done so. “So I’m no longer a suspect?”

  Madding leaned back. “Well, you may have returned to find your stick, but it does indicate that other men also had the opportunity to get hold of it.” Stern grey eyes met dark blue. “As I said, I’m inclined to believe you had nothing to do with it, but, you understand, I have to be cautious. Either way, there is a murderer somewhere on board the Aquitania.”

  Hubert Van Hook appeared at the table as the final course was concluded. He spoke to Milton and Clyde of the American jazz band that would be entertaining in the ballroom that night and suggested that Prudence and Felicity Hickman join them all after dinner.

  “Rowly,” he added, in his loud Chicago accent, “Annie wonders whether you’d care to have coffee with her.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Rowland replied as he stood. He was not, in any case, going dancing. He glanced towards Edna who was still talking with the clergyman and wondered fleetingly if Father Bryan was allowed to dance.

  Taking his leave of Captain Madding, Rowland wished the others goodnight.

  Annie Besant waited for him at her table. She watched him approach.

  “Why, Rowland dear,” she said, standing. “You’ve given up your stick… are you sure it’s not too early?”