by C. G Oster
“Then we must be discreet. I think I should go speak to Charlotte.”
There wasn’t time to speak to her. They were pulling into the port of Marseille, and even from a distance, Dory could see that the entire port was full of people. Thousands. It was the most disturbing sight she had ever seen. Clearly, people were desperate to leave.
Down the walkway along the ship, she saw one of the first officers.
“Excuse me,” she called to the harried looking man.
“One moment, Miss,” he said as he continued what he was doing. Dory hadn’t realized she had disturbed him working, but he was supervising the men throwing massive ropes down to the dock as the ship was being tied up. “How can I help you?” he said when the men below them completed their work.
“I need to send a telegram. It’s important.”
“You will have to brave the crowd to get the telegram office. It’s right over there,” he said, pointing. “Like this, it would be a dangerous crossing. Perhaps if you had a few shillings to spare, you could send one of the ship’s boys. They are nimble and quick around the docks.”
“Yes, I might do that,” she said and the man departed with a nod. The boys were easy to spot. They wore uniforms with sailor’s hats. “Young man,” she called and pulled out two pound notes from her bag and showed them to him. “I need someone to go send a telegram and they can keep the change,” which would probably surmount to a whole pound. “Interested?”
“Yes, madame,” he said, his eyes on the notes.
“Excellent. Now, the message.” Pulling out a small notebook and pencil, she scribbled DI Ridley as recipient at Pirbright Camp, Surrey.
Not cartographer, probably prospector. Terry Wilcott likely suspect.
Dory had no idea if DI Ridley had the time to look at this, or was even in a position to receive the telegram, but she felt it was a good idea that someone knew of what they had learnt. Who knew what could happen? They were, after all, heading into waters where U-boats sunk merchant ships on a regular basis. So far, at least, they were in what should be safe waters, but as they neared the Channel, things could get dicey. It was too scary to think about.
If nothing else, DI Ridley could follow up and then report to the extended Drecsay family what had happened to their relation.
The ship boy ran off and Dory watched as a few moments later, he fought against the flow coming up the gangway to do her bidding. She would watch until he returned, in case he was forgotten and they left without him.
Over the side of the ship, she could see that they were also taking onboard provisions, which were being hoisted on pallets into a cargo hold—one that people were obviously not sleeping in.
Beside them was another ship and people were streaming up the gangway. The Pearl of the East the ship was called. It was taking on a great many people carrying whatever they could.
“Going to Shanghai,” a man said next to her.
“Shanghai? That’s an awfully long way.”
“An open port. You don’t need a visa to go. Anyone can turn up and take up residence there.” He had an Australian accent.
“Really?”
“These poor bastards are having trouble finding anywhere to go. No one wants them. Mexico is giving out visas, but most other countries are being sparing in the visas they hand out. Some will only take the kids and not the parents.”
“That’s awful.” Why couldn’t whole families be taken? Who would care for these children? She wished her own country would be more generous, but there was only a small stream of people coming up the gangway compared to the Shanghai ship. Still, some visas were obviously being granted.
Leaning casually on the railing, the man continued. “Everyone here is looking to go somewhere. Many don’t care where, I suppose. I’d fuck off to Shanghai too if I had to. Get the fuck out of this shithole.”
That was one way of putting it.
Chapter 30
A fter the madness of Marseille’s port, they slipped away from the French coast, down toward the warm air and sparkling waters of the southern Mediterranean. In a way, it felt as though they were leaving the madness behind, even though that wasn’t possibly true.
Even Dory worried about Vivian—not that he would appreciate it. He was so close to where the fighting was. Still, no news had come of the Germans invading Switzerland. In saying that, there had technically been enough time for him to return to the Cote d’Azur, but he hadn’t. Perhaps taking someone out of a sanitorium wasn’t a straightforward affair, even in wartime.
Then again, he couldn’t bring his mother to this boat. Lady Wallisford could not return to the UK. She was effectively in exile—a longstanding tradition for aristocratic criminals.
It was a few days after they left Marseille that Dory spotted Terry Wilcott. He was standing by the railing, smoking while talking to some men, his other hand tucked leisurely in his pocket. He looked as if he hadn’t a worry in the world.
Looking over, he caught her watching and waved. They hadn’t exactly been friends, but he now acknowledged her. Stuck on this boat, difference in position didn’t seem to matter so much. They were in this together, suffering from being transported like livestock.
Was Terry, with his round face and soft eyes, really capable of killing someone—his friend? Livinia said absolutely not, and she had known him a long while. If the land in Palestine was valueless, then there was very little tying Terry to Drecsay in terms of motive. It was just this supposed cartographer that served as an indication that there was more to this story—this land in Palestine.
Quickly, Dory waved back, but she didn’t approach. It felt disingenuous being overtly friendly to someone when she was investigating them for murder.
Perhaps it was time to talk to Charlotte. Initially, it had seemed like a good idea, but now, Dory wasn’t as convinced that it would tell them any more than they already knew, but it was still worth finding out.
Returning to their area of the boat, she found Livinia who had taken to her role as ship’s librarian, having set up a reading corner with makeshift bookshelves she had forced the crewmen to find and retrieve for her. Likely, there wasn’t anything she couldn’t bully them into doing, speaking with such authority that dissension bordered on traitorous.
“Now, where can we find Charlotte?” Dory asked as she approached Livinia, who was stacking returned books on her shelves. She’d even managed to find a carpet for the reading nook. God knew where she’d got that from.
“Oh, I’ll show you. Are you going to interrogate her?”
“I don’t interrogate.”
“You really haven’t heard yourself, then.”
Dory opened her mouth to argue, but had to concede that she might not have a leg to stand on. All she did was ask questions. Perhaps some saw it as interrogating. It wasn’t, after all, a new accusation. “Fine, I am going to grill her until she squeals like a cornered rat.”
Livinia laughed. “Charlotte won’t know what’s hit her.”
At no point had Dory realized there were so many corridors on this ship, and for some reason, Livinia had done a thorough survey of the whole ship. Walking endlessly through areas Dory had never been, they came to a strange compartment where a group of people had set up their quarters. Sheets were hung to provide some semblance of privacy.
“Knock, knock,” Livinia said and pushed back a sheet. “Charlotte. Are you in?”
“Here,” a woman said, appearing with a book in her hand. Was Livinia bullying people into reading as well? Dory wouldn’t put it past her. “Oh, Livinia, what a pleasant surprise. I would invite you to sit, but there is nowhere to sit.” The woman’s gaze traveled over Dory and she looked back expectantly for an introduction. They had met before. Charlotte obviously didn’t remember her. Charlotte was about the same age, and there were similarities between the girls in the way they dressed. Similar type of schooling, Dory would guess.
“This is Dory, Auntie’s companion. Remember how you mentioned you saw t
hat man coming from Palestine speaking to Baron Drecsay—cartographer, you said.”
“Yes,” Charlotte answered. “That’s right.”
“Now what made you think he was a cartographer?” Livinia asked.
“Well, he had maps. Tons of maps. Some he’d obviously drawn himself.”
“He didn’t actually say?”
“I didn’t actually speak to him. He was only there, around, you know.”
“Was anyone else there?” Dory asked.
“It was a café so there were loads of people coming and going every minute, I expect.” These questions obviously seemed absurd to Charlotte.
“But anyone you know?”
A slight shrug said no. “No one I noticed.”
“How about Terry Wilcott?”
“Why would Terry Wilcott be there? I suppose he and Drecsay were friends, but no, I didn’t see Terry there.”
“What about at Lady Tonbridge’s party?”
Charlotte’s expression changed and she looked Dory up and down. Maybe Dory did interrogate people. She didn’t seem to be able to ask things casually. That was something she should work on.
“Uhmm,” Charlotte tried to think. “I can’t quite recall. I saw you dancing with Drecsay, though,” Charlotte said while slightly nudging Livinia’s arm. “You two seemed to be cozy in each other’s company.”
“Just friends,” Livinia said dismissively.
“I’m sure you got interrogated a time or two about it by the police. You did find him. Whacked on the head. It was bloody from what I hear. I didn’t see it myself.” There was a certain excited glee in Charlotte’s eyes. “I would have been beside myself.”
“Yes, it was dreadful,” Livinia said coldly and an uncomfortable silence descended.
“Shame,” Charlotte said after a while. “He was such a handsome man.”
“Do you recall what this cartographer looked like? A name even?”
Charlotte blinked a couple of times. “Average height. Brown hair. Nothing remarkable.”
“Age?”
“Young. In his twenties.”
“Accent.”
“Oh, I think more Oxford than Cambridge, if I were to hazard a guess.”
“So he was… ” She was going to say ‘one of your kind,’ but stopped herself, “educated.”
“Naturally,” Charlotte said as if it was obvious. “John Lobb boots, I’m sure of it. His jacket was obviously Saville Row. Could be Italian, but that would be a stretch.”
“No name?”
“We weren’t introduced.” Charlotte’s patience had run out. “I can’t believe how hot it’s getting. We get no air in here whatsoever, packed in like cattle. It’s a disgrace. I should have gone with Stu and driven to Spain. It would have been much more comfortable. I can’t believe we have to survive weeks of this.” Bringing up her hand, she fanned herself with the book. “And we get nothing to eat but bread and soup. We’re all going to starve by the time we reach England.”
“We hadn’t even considered bringing more from the stores at Villa Bellevieu. Didn’t even think about it. If I would have known what this would be like, I would have stuffed my trunk full of food.”
It would probably have served them all better if she had.
“Thank you so much for answering our questions,” Livinia said, taking Charlotte’s hand. “It’s been immensely helpful.”
“Always glad to help. Are you going to come have a spot of tea with us later? We’re trying to make it a regular thing.”
“Of course I will.”
The invitation was not extended to Dory, which suited her just fine.
“I better get back,” Livinia said, urging Dory with her. “She could pick up a man in a line up based entirely on the stitching of his clothes. “But interestingly, as they are John Lobb boots, and I would trust her assessment on that, it is likely the manufacturer could provide us with a name. Perhaps I should get a more accurate description of the boots from her later,” Livinia finished absently. She stopped and Dory did too. “I told you that there is no way that Terry would have anything to do with this.” She was watching Dory intently now.
“Yes, but that being the case, we need to ensure all the ‘I’s are dotted and ‘T's crossed, otherwise the suspicion would naturally fall on him,” Dory said, not feeling the certainty she spoke with. There was technically no evidence to any of this. The only mention of this prospector type was, according to Charlotte’s assertion, identified entirely on the clothes he was wearing.
Dory could just imagine how impressed DI Ridley would be if she told him of this supposed ‘evidence’. Livinia had at one point asserted that Terry was inordinately unlucky, and being the recipient of a useless piece of land attached to a murder would be seen as the height of bad luck.
There was nothing to say that this prospector had told Drecsay anything. All they really knew was that the man had shown maps. They assumed that Drecsay had purchased the property as a result. There was also no evidence linking Terry to any of this. He was friends with Drecsay—Drecsay owed him money, but he owed other people too, including his other supposed friend Prince Barenoli. They both technically gained by his death through their liens. And of the two of them, Barenoli was the darker character. Terry seemed more good-natured and fun-loving, while Barenoli disdained the world. Both had been at Lady Tonbridge’s party. Both liens were resolved with the baron’s death. And the apartment, on the surface, was worth much more than this distant land in the desert—but why had Drecsay bought it?
Chapter 31
T he coast of Spain was beautiful and a lovely distraction from the ship, where lack of facilities was starting to show in frayed nerves, poorer hygiene, and unruly hair. The rooms were all gradually growing smellier and sniping words were increasingly common.
Dory stood by the railing and watched the Spanish coast slowly glide past. They were too far away to see any life, but they saw buildings, fishing harbors and golden beaches. Well, she had never had the opportunity to go to Spain, but now, she had certainly seen it. The war hadn’t reached here and Franco seemed determined to stay out of it. Perhaps that meant there would be something left of it at the end of all this, as the rabble of the German Army seemed to destroy whatever they touched.
The war would end one day. It had to. The Great War had lasted four years. Four years seemed like an impossibly long period of time. Back in history, there was both a thirty-year war and a hundred-year war. The outlook was depressing now that a diplomatic solution seemed less and less likely.
News had filtered through from the people embarking at Marseilles that the Italians had entered the fray by declaring war on both England and France. The news had utterly deflated Dory. Their little safe haven at Villa Bellevieu hadn’t been safe at all. For all they knew, it could be run over by Italian soldiers as they spoke. Dory feared for all the people in the village, dreading to think the Italians were as callous and harmful as the Germans. Every corner of the world seemed under attack.
Now that they were at sea, they heard nothing. There was no news about what was happening in the world, which seemed to rewrite itself every single day. But they were sailing away from harm’s way, in the nick of time, too.
Over the next few days, they sailed closer and closer to the Spanish coast, eventually seeing Gibraltar in the distance. British territory. There had been no communication about whether they would be allowed to get off or not.
How nice it would be to wander around the streets for a while and do normal things like sit in a café, or browse through shops. It seemed so long ago since she had done something like that. The British Government probably didn’t want a thousand people wandering around the streets of Gibraltar with the burden of having to deal with them if they didn’t make it back to the ship on time.
Dory was right. They weren’t let off and some took the news badly, arguing with the crewmen, saying they needed this or that. Some had legitimate reasons, saying they needed medicines from the pharmacy
. There was a doctor on the ship—a very busy doctor, charged with the care of seven hundred some people who were on this ship.
More were coming on, a small and orderly queue of Gibaltarese. Or where they Gibraltarians? Dory didn’t know. She also didn’t know if they were better off here than back in Britain, but then Gibraltar was always in a strategic position at the mouth of the Mediterranean. It could be that at some point, it became a focal point. Like everyone else, she was trying to determine where would be a safe location as this war progressed. Out of two locations, which would be safer?
By the look of the small crowd waiting to come on the boat, they had decided that Gibraltar wasn’t the better of the options available to them. Or maybe they had other reasons to come. There was a Navy ship in the harbor as well, and mariners moved around the port, all seemingly having a task and a purpose.
With a sigh, she watched as provisions were hauled onto the ship again. Managing this ship wasn’t a pretty affair. Latrines had been set up along the ship and they had to be emptied overboard every day. A commissary had been set up for purchasing cigarettes and lozenges. It was all they had. Perhaps after this stop, the commissary would have more.
There would be at least ten more days of this. All of them too close for comfort, an absolute lack of privacy and barely enough water for anyone to wash. Lady Pettifer hardly ever left her bunk, while Livinia made herself busy as responsible for the pursuits of higher learning or simply distraction through her library.
Some of the children did put on plays, which were lovely, and probably the best thing about the whole voyage. The only privacy available was gazing out at sea or the distant coast and trying to forget where one was.
“Miss Dory Sparks,” she heard a boy call as he walked along the passageway. “Miss Dory Sparks.”
“Here,” Dory said and held up her hand. People stood aside from her and the boy approached.
“Telegram,” he said and handed over a triple-folded paper.
“Thank you,” she said, but the boy was gone the moment he was relieved of his burden.