Clyde sputtered. He didn’t often take his Catholicism that far—he turned to Rowland for help.
Rowland looked at him. “I think you should go. Pray for us.”
If Father Bryan hadn’t still been standing there, Clyde might have sworn at him. As it was he had little choice but to promise his attendance.
“And I’ll see you there, Edna.” Matthew Bryan beamed at the sculptress who smiled back at him with wide-eyed innocence.
“Of course.”
It must have been that the friendly deacon had eyes only for Edna, because he did not notice the looks of shock on the faces of the gentlemen around her. They waited till he had gone before they challenged her.
“You told him you were Catholic, didn’t you?” Milton accused.
“No… I just didn’t tell him I wasn’t… he just assumed…”
Clyde groaned and slumped back in his deckchair.
“Ed, you’ve just agreed to go to a Catholic Mass,” Rowland informed her.
“Oh yes, I believe I did.”
Clyde groaned a little louder.
“It’s a bit different from an ordinary Anglican service.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Have you ever been to Mass before?” Rowland asked.
“Of course not, I’m not Catholic.”
“That was my original point, I think.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Rowly.” Edna was unconcerned. “I’ll just go along and do exactly what Clyde does.”
Milton laughed. “Assuming Clyde knows what to do.”
“We’ll be fine, won’t we, Clyde? We’ll stay at the back.”
“I haven’t been to Mass in a while,” Clyde admitted grimly. “Thanks for your help, Rowly.” He kicked at Rowland’s deckchair in disgust.
“Sorry about that, old mate.” Rowland was sincere. “I just thought going to Mass might be a good chance to meet Isobel.”
“Why do I want to meet Isobel?”
“To find out if she was meeting Urquhart in a lifeboat.”
Milton sat up. “God, Rowly, you’re right. It could have been her—and what’s more I wouldn’t put it past the bishop to deal out a little divine justice of his own.”
Rowland’s lips twitched upwards. “Apparently, the Pope’s afraid of him.”
Clyde looked slowly from Milton to Rowland. “Just so we’re clear… you think His Grace is some kind of murderous lunatic who impaled a man for dallying with his niece, and you want me to go into his Mass, with Jezebel on my arm and accuse that same niece of meeting Urquhart in a lifeboat for immoral purposes?”
“I didn’t plan on Ed,” Rowland confessed. “Who would have thought that she was masquerading as a Catholic?”
Clyde sighed. “My mother’s right—I’m moving with a bad crowd.”
“Did you notice that Bryan is somewhat indiscreet for a priest?” Milton said suddenly. “A nice change, I’ll admit, but unusual.”
“I told you, Matthew is a deacon,” Edna corrected. “He hasn’t actually been ordained yet.”
“The other one—Murphy—he’s much more priest-like,” Milton continued. “You don’t find him inviting pretty girls to Mass.”
“I don’t know,” Clyde muttered. “Maybe he’s canvassing the second class deck.”
5
KRISHNAMURTI
A NEW PHILOSOPHY
“STAR OF THE EAST” DISBANDED
LONDON
Krishnamurti, the young Indian who some years ago was hailed by the Theosophists as “The New Messiah,” has reappeared in London with a new philosophy.
He said that he had disbanded the Order of the Star of the East because he declined the revenues and possessions heaped upon him. Krishnamurti’s creed now is—“Free yourselves from the fear of all convention, social moralities, and organised religions, and discover the truth within you, guided thereby not by anything taught or told.”
The London Times
Rowland sketched the party of high-haired women who sipped from tall frosted glasses at the table opposite. They were typical of the matrons who inhabited the first class decks: greying hair, coiffed in upward-sweeping styles, fox stoles draped like wreaths about their shoulders. Rowland grimaced unconsciously as he drew in the sad glass-eyed faces of the garments. He looked up briefly for Milton. The poet had struck a conversation with a becoming young lady in tennis attire. It appeared she had come into the Long Gallery to ask the purser about replacing a lost ball. Milton was assisting her with her enquiries. The poet was nothing if not gallant. Rowland returned to his notebook.
In time, Milton returned and then Hubert Van Hook joined them both. It seemed he had been wandering the ship in search of some distraction, and so he approached them most warmly. Van Hook took a cigarette from a slim silver case and fumbled for a light, chatting without pause as he did so. It was he who raised the subject of Orville Urquhart.
“This malarkey about an accident…,” he started.
“Don’t ask, Hu,” Milton warned.
Hubert stared at them. “Old Ahab gagged you guys, did he?”
“Ahab?… Oh, you mean Madding…,” Milton laughed and dealt him in. “In a word, yes—so don’t ask. Rowly is particular about these things.”
“Okay,” Van Hook grinned broadly, affably. “I’ll shut my trap.”
“Had you known Urquhart for long?” Rowland asked.
“Since we were kids,” Van Hook replied. His expression hardened. “He used to make the crossing often enough—his parents were loaded—big shots in the movement.”
“What did you make of him?”
Van Hook shrugged. “Couldn’t trust him. Real wiseguy… looked out for number one if you know what I mean.”
“So, he had enemies?”
“I suppose so. He could turn on the honey when he wanted to. The babes seemed to like him and he had old Annie snowed.”
“I think Annie may have worked him out,” Rowland said, as he recalled their conversation the previous evening.
“Baloney!” Van Hook returned. “His manners may have made her burn up occasionally, but she thought he was the cat’s pyjamas! Spoke up for him every time.” He looked at Rowland. “Heard you boffed him in the kisser for messing with Edna… Don’t blame you… she’s a doll.”
There was a pause, partly because it took Rowland a second to work out exactly what Van Hook was saying, and partly because, once he had, he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Yes…”
“Attaboy! Don’t feel bad about it. He had it coming.” Hubert Van Hook tossed down his hand. “You fellas going to sit around beating your gums, or are we playing here?”
“We’re playing,” Rowland replied, glancing at his hand.
It took the Australians about an hour to bring the game to a profitable conclusion.
“Well fellas, it’s been a real gasser,” Van Hook said, standing up. “But I’m going to scram. You boys have cleaned me out—haven’t got jack.”
Rowland and Milton watched him go.
“Seems wrong to take his money,” Milton said quietly. “Poor chap can’t even speak English.”
Rowland nodded. “We have a week’s stopover in New York. We could be in trouble if they all talk like that.”
“Is a gasser a good or bad thing, do you think?”
“It’s hard to tell… could be either.”
Edna and Clyde came into view. The sculptress was dressed in a becoming floral, with a chaste Peter Pan collar. Her hat was stylish, but conservatively so, as were the kid gloves she wore.
“Well?” Milton asked as they sat down.
Rowland turned to Clyde. “Did Ed manage to pass as—”
“She took communion.”
Milton laughed. “Don’t you have to be admitted to some kind of holy order for that?”
“It is traditional to be confirmed in the Catholic Church before one partakes of the Eucharist,” Clyde said tightly.
Edna pulled off her gloves. “Stop fussing, Clyde,
” she said, patting his arm. “It’s not all that different from our communions… except there was no wine. Did you know they didn’t share the wine, Rowly? I daresay Bishop Hanrahan likes to keep it all for himself.”
Rowland tried not to laugh for Clyde’s sake. Milton had no such inhibitions. He called over a waiter and ordered drinks for them all in an attempt to compensate the deprivation.
“So how was the service?” Rowland asked once the drinks arrived.
“Hanrahan’s certainly heavy on the brimstone,” Clyde replied shaking his head. “Scared the hell out of me.”
Milton raised his glass. “Don’t worry mate, we’ll put it back.”
“Did you see Isobel?”
“Yes—pretty girl. Cried a lot and spent the rest of the time glaring at Hanrahan. Ed spoke to her.”
“Only for a little while. Poor thing seemed in need of a friend.” Edna added reflectively. “She’s taking tea with me at four o’clock.”
“Well, if she’s pretty, we might all join you,” Milton suggested.
“Oh yes, do,” Edna invited. “She might even find you amusing.”
“How about we try our hands at deck tennis in the meantime?” Milton suggested stretching. “Provided Rowly’s delicate constitution can cope with the outside air.”
Rowland looked sharply at the poet, recalling the young lady who’d lost her ball.
Milton smiled innocently.
Rowland sighed. “All right, why not.”
They made their way onto the appropriate deck and found a purser, who equipped them with racquets and erected a net. The deck court was so small that Rowland found he could play a reasonable game standing still and relying on his reach. The mild exercise of the game mitigated the cold a little. Milton on the other hand, carried on as if he was centre court at Wimbledon, turning regularly to acknowledge an audience of young ladies who’d abandoned their own games to watch.
Despite the bleak day there were several people out playing shuffleboard or simply taking a turn about the ship. Rowland noticed Annie Besant walking, arm in arm, with Jiddu Krishnamurti. Hubert walked with them.
Some time later they noticed voices rising above the background of passengers at play.
Rowland caught the tennis ball in his hand and turned towards the sounds of argument. Hubert stood near the rail, facing Bishop Hanrahan. The wind carried most of their words away, but they were clearly heated. Hanrahan was shouting something about blasphemy; Hubert was returning with derision. Jiddu Krishnamurti appeared to be trying to soothe the situation whilst Annie looked amused, if anything.
Suddenly Hubert poked the bishop in the chest. Hanrahan reacted explosively, punching the young man in the jaw. Hubert reeled, falling back heavily against Annie who was leaning against the rail. The passengers on deck seemed to react as one, arms outstretched, as the old woman was pushed hard against the balustrade and for a moment, seemed about to plunge over. Jiddu Krishnamurti’s hand flew out. He caught Annie about the waist and dragged her away from the railing. A collective sigh of relief. And then spontaneous applause. Crewmen appeared to ensure that no one had been hurt, and to reassure the shocked passengers.
“Maybe he can walk on water,” Clyde said quietly as the crowd burst once again into applause for Krishnamurti, the hero of the moment.
For his part, Bishop Hanrahan was anything but contrite. He finished with a few further words to Hubert and stalked off the deck, with his deacons in tow.
“That was too close,” Edna said, frowning.
“His Grace can pack a punch,” Clyde muttered. “Hubert’s no lightweight and he sent him flying a fair way.”
“No wonder the Holy Father’s scared,” Milton agreed.
6
RMS AQUITANIA
MENU
Oysters – Marennes
Grape Fruit Cocktails
Epicurean Ham
Anchovy Salad
Radishes
Salted Almonds
Olives
Œufs Mayonnaise
Celeri
Canape Suedoise
__________
Pot au Feu
Potage St. Hubert
__________
Supreme de Britt – Sauce Normande
Fried Fillets of Whiting – Ravigote
__________
Mousse a l’Ecarlate
Cotelettes d’ Agneau – Reforme
__________
Prime Sirloins and Ribs of Beef – Horseradish Sauce
Haunch of Venison – Oporto
Roast Turkey – Cranberry Sauce
Baked York Ham – Nouilles
__________
Brussels Sprouts
Rice
Fried Egg Plant
Boiled, Roast, Puree, and Rissole Potatoes
__________
Sorbet a l’Orange
__________
Roast Pheasant – Saragota Potatoes
Salade de Saison
__________
Plum Pudding – Anglaise
Bavarois Suchard
Friandises
Glace Vanille
Coupes Tutti Frutti
Dessert
Cafe
High tea was being served in the Garden Lounge on the Aquitania. There was no actual garden to speak of. The lounge was not unlike a conservatory. Large picture windows allowed passengers to take in the vista of the ocean whilst sitting at wicker settings with their teapots and cucumber sandwiches. A string quartet provided a refined musical background. Isobel Hanrahan sat at a table towards the back, looking furtively about her from time to time.
“You weren’t lying, Clyde,” Rowland murmured as he looked appreciatively at the classic Irish beauty. The bishop’s niece had long dark hair and large, heavily lashed eyes. Her figure was very slim, girlish, but there was something seductive about her nonetheless.
Isobel stood as they approached. She looked alarmed by the arrival of so many.
Edna grabbed her hand warmly. “Hello, Isobel. I brought some friends—I hope you don’t mind.” She introduced her gentlemen.
Isobel appeared a little flustered, but she took the seat that Milton pulled out for her. A waiter arrived with a trolley of cakes and petite sandwiches from which Clyde and Edna chose a generous selection with all the excitement of children. Silver teapots were placed at the table’s centre and fine china, which bore the crest of the Aquitania, at each setting. For a short while, Isobel Hanrahan was lost in a friendly flurry of pouring and pastry passing whilst Clyde and Milton argued over who had actually won the game of deck tennis which had been interrupted by Annie Besant’s near accident.
Rowland poured tea into Isobel’s cup. “Do you take milk or lemon, Miss Hanrahan?” he asked.
“Milk, definitely milk, Mr. Sinclair,” she replied shyly. Her accent was as broad as her uncle’s, but the lilt was not unpleasant. “It would be all I can take with this wretched seasickness.”
Milton passed her a plate of bread and butter. “I trust you are otherwise enjoying life at sea, Miss Hanrahan,” he said as she declined.
Immediately, her eyes welled and she began to weep.
Clyde kicked Milton under the table. “What did you say?”
Rowland looked pointedly at Edna, who rolled her eyes, took the young woman’s hand and patted it consolingly. Rowland handed Edna a handkerchief and the sculptress passed it on. In a few moments Isobel had composed herself.
“Forgive me,” she gulped. “I miss Orville so dreadfully.”
“Oh, dear,” Edna said, encouraging Isobel to sip her tea. “It was a terrible accident.”
“Did you know Mr. Urquhart well?” Rowland asked carefully.
Isobel nodded. She pulled a silver locket from under her collar—an unusual piece, engraved and set with seed pearls.
Edna gasped softly. Rowland tensed.
“He gave me this grand jewel, just the morning before…”
Milton met Rowland’s eye. “Did Mr. Urquhart put his pic
ture in it?” the poet asked evenly.
They all recognised the locket. Rowland had given it to Edna years before. Ever since, it had held a picture of her late mother.
Isobel shook her head and released the clasp—it was empty. “Orville promised he’d have a portrait taken for me.”
Rowland glanced at Edna uncertainly. The sculptress’ face held more pity than anger. Silently, he marvelled at her compassion.
Milton spoke gently, holding Isobel with his dark gaze. “Here, take my picture; though I bid farewell, thine in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.”
Isobel’s sighed, her eyes dewy. “Why, Mr. Isaacs, that is so very beautiful. It gives me such comfort.”
“Words are all I have to offer in your moment of loss, Miss Hanrahan,” the poet replied humbly.
“John Donne’s words,” Rowland murmured.
Milton ignored him. He’d always considered Rowland’s obsession with who wrote what entirely unwarranted.
“It was an engagement gift,” Isobel disintegrated again. “I am sorry… what must you think of me… we are barely acquainted.”
“How long had you known Mr. Urquhart?” Rowland asked, stirring his tea, feeling intrusive in the face of her grief.
“We found each other the moment we came aboard,” she replied with lip atremble.
“Pardon me, if I am too familiar, Miss Hanrahan,” Milton ventured, “but has your engagement been announced?”
“It has not… not yet…”
“And your uncle?”
“Sweet Lord, no!” She coloured. “Uncle Shaun would never allow… I suppose it matters little now… I would meet with Orville in secret.” Isobel raised Rowland’s handkerchief to her face once more.
The Australians waited patiently. They had been subjected to the disapproval of Bishop Hanrahan. They could feel nothing but sorry for the young woman.
“On the night Mr. Urquhart died…,” Rowland started.
Isobel nodded. “I was meeting Orville around midnight… we had a place where we could be alone.” She looked away and blushed a little. “Uncle Shaun is usually in his bed by ten.”
“Usually?”
“Father Murphy came to my stateroom around half past ten… Uncle Shaun had sent him to hear my confession—apparently he insisted.”
Edna hugged her impulsively. “Oh, you poor old thing. How simply frightful… What ever did you do?”
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