Dangerous Sea (20 page)

Frank had been right – the Senator had been universally disliked and his passing went unmourned. There was sympathy for the widow and, rather surprisingly, Mrs Dolmen proved the most sympathetic. She had gone to sit with the poor woman and, in her fractured English, had tried to bring her some little comfort. Perhaps she, too, knew what it was like to be married to a demanding and ambitious husband.

Edward put down his wine glass and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. He looked around the table. It was odd, he thought, how quickly cliques were formed – alliances made and enmities shared. Those with whom he had dined at the Captain’s table on that first night were present, with the exception of Mrs Dolmen who was still on duty in the Days’ cabin. There was Lord Benyon, Marcus Fern, Frank, of course, Verity and Sam Forrest, Professor Dolmen, Warren Fairley and Jane Barclay, who seemed to have recovered from her ordeal remarkably quickly.

In addition there were the Roosevelts – the twins, Philly and Perry, and their mother, a charming, highly nervous woman in her fifties, still beautiful like a rose in September which threatened to be blown away in the next storm. It was a pleasure to see the way the twins treated her – teasing, affectionate and loving but always in control. Edward was inclined to think he agreed with the Duke of Windsor on one thing – but only one – that in America children exercised authority over their parents.

Idly, he began to view each of them as possible suspects. As soon as he realized what he was doing he felt guilty, but that did not stop him. First, who to exclude? He could hardly suspect Lord Benyon. It was true he was one of the few people not on deck watching the race but it was preposterous to think this distinguished man would murder a fellow passenger even if he had a motive – which, as far as Edward knew, he did not. Frank and Perry had been racing and he was pretty sure Philly had been watching on deck the whole time, but he could not swear to it.

Much as she disliked the Senator, he could hardly imagine Verity killing him. He smiled and caught her eye. If she knew what he was thinking! On the other hand, Sam Forrest, now looking at her with sheep’s eyes, was a suspect. He had appeared on deck just as the race began, looking pale and rather fuddled, by no means the cheerful young man – seemingly without a care in the world – he had been half an hour earlier. But, as far as Edward was aware, Forrest did not know the Senator and, though he might dislike his political views, that was hardly a motive for murder.

Professor Dolmen was looking happy. He knew Dolmen had had a conversation with Lord Benyon after which he seemed very much more at his ease and Edward wondered what Benyon had said to him. That left Warren Fairley who, on the face of it, had the best motive for wanting Day out of the way. He had made no secret of his enmity. Day personified all he hated about his country and the South in particular. Day was a bigot and had put every obstacle he could in the way of Fairley as he pursued his career and fought the great fight against racism. Perhaps the Senator had threatened or insulted him once too often. Physically, he was the most powerful man at the table and would have had no problem in knocking Day unconscious. Might it not have been a terrible accident – a moment of madness, not a deliberate attempt at murder? Fairley was calm enough now but, of course, he was an actor by profession.

Seeing Edward’s eyes on him, Fairley leant over the table. ‘ “Who from my cabin tempted me to walk? . . . Methought that Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling, struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, into the tumbling billows of the main. Lord, Lord! methought what pain it was to drown . . .” ’

‘
Richard III?
’

‘Yes. I never played it.’

‘Of course not!’

‘Why do you say that, Lord Edward? White men “black-up” to play Othello.’

‘Yes, but you could hardly “white-up”!’

‘I should not need to,’ Fairley said with disdain. ‘Shakespeare calls on the imagination of all of us in the audience. “On your imaginary forces work . . .” ’

‘I had never thought like that but, of course, you are right.’

‘But you cannot see the audience accepting a black Henry V?’

‘No.’

‘Nor I, not in our lifetime anyway, but one day . . .’

‘“The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder”,’ Edward quoted.

‘I see you know your
Henry V
,’ Fairley said approvingly, ‘and ’tis true, the ocean is perilous. Are you trying to decide if I murdered Senator Day?’

Edward, taken aback by this shrewd guess, said hurriedly, ‘That would be absurd.’

‘Not totally, I hated him and wanted him dead. He was my enemy. This Senate Committee he was setting up with his friend, Senator Dies, to root out un-American activities is aimed at me and people like me.’

Edward looked at him searchingly. ‘But you didn’t kill him?’

‘I didn’t, but someone did . . . someone who will also deny it.’

‘But he will be a liar, and I don’t believe you are a liar.’

‘Thank you, Lord Edward,’ Fairley said in amusement. ‘But remember, actors are liars by profession.’

Edward shook himself mentally. What on earth was he thinking about? Senator Day might have been killed by anyone in First Class. There was no reason to pick on one of the passengers he happened to know. Anyone could have slipped away from watching the race – or, like Lord Benyon, not bothered to come up on deck – and done the deed. At least Major Cranton was not in the frame. He had been very much in evidence before and during the race, making loud, would-be jocular remarks about the contestants. Marcus Fern had discovered the body so he was, by definition, the main suspect but a clever man would hardly be found with the corpse – unless it was some sort of double bluff.

Edward had been studying the passenger list Ferguson had given him and there was one particular passenger who interested him. But, what did it matter? Edward had to remind himself that his purpose was not to track down Day’s killer but to keep Lord Benyon safe. His only interest in finding the Senator’s murderer was if the killer also had Benyon on his list. On the face of it, he didn’t think it likely. There was nothing to tie the two men together. Physically, they were chalk and cheese. It was impossible for the Senator to have been mistaken for Benyon. Day was a shambling bear of a man and Benyon a frail wisp by comparison. He sighed. There was one thing he did mean to do: telephone Major Ferguson and give him a brief, if necessarily guarded, account of what had happened to Senator Day. The storm had made communication with the outside world virtually impossible but, with the Captain’s permission, he ought now to be able to speak to London.

When dinner ended – a much better meal than they had had in the main dining-room – they went their separate ways. Edward was on duty and he accompanied Benyon back to the cabin and put him to bed. He was still exhausted by the storm and his violent seasickness. Edward’s knee was hurting. He cursed himself for being a fool – pitting himself against youth – but the damage had been done and he knew he needed to rest it if he was to be able to walk properly when they reached New York. The doctor had given him anti-inflammatory pills and there was nothing else anyone could do for him. Inevitably, Frank went off with the twins to put their mother to bed – she was complaining of one of her headaches – and then, no doubt, to dance the night away. He admired the boy’s energy but wondered if it had really been worth bringing him if all he did was philander with the first pretty girl he saw.

Verity and Sam Forrest went off together, to do what Edward did not know nor care to imagine. It was annoying, though, because he wanted to talk things over with her. In the past, her caustic wit and down-to-earth assessment of the facts had been of considerable help to him when he was trying to puzzle something out but tonight she had other priorities.

‘By the way,’ Sam said, as they got up from dinner, ‘I’ve got some brandy in my cabin. Why don’t we . . .?’

Verity looked at him suspiciously but his face was as innocent as a babe’s. She was on the point of saying she didn’t drink brandy when – for no reason other than that she was bored and rather depressed – she said, ‘All right, just a nightcap.’

Sam lay sprawled on the bed, his toothglass – half-full of brandy – cupped in his hands. He had taken off his jacket and loosened his collar. Verity was slumped in the armchair, looking at him intently. She had thought she knew him but now decided she didn’t. She knew certain things about him. He was a good-looking American boy with all the optimism and charm of youth. He was a good speaker – she had heard him turn potentially ugly meetings into enthusiastic support for Anglo-American labour unity. Despite his youth, he was the chosen representative of one of the most powerful labour leaders in the United States. He had a great future and she liked men with drive. But . . . there was a ‘but’ . . . he did not quite have Edward’s intelligence and certainly not his education. There was something a little callow about him, she decided.

‘What do you think about all this?’ Sam asked.

‘The murder?’

‘Yes – the murder. What else?’

‘Good riddance, I suppose. He had enemies. He seemed to
like
having enemies.’

‘I was one, you know.’

‘He hated Communists and unions, so no doubt he hated you.’

‘That’s so, but me in particular.’

‘What had you ever done to him?’

‘It was what I wouldn’t do. He had interests in Tennessee – mines, power . . . he had a finger in many pies. He asked me to use my influence with my union to see there were no strikes.’

‘But that’s absurd! Why should he think you would do that?’

‘He tried to blackmail me.’

‘But you can’t be blackmailed if you haven’t done anything wrong.’

Sam bit his lip. ‘He said he would tell the authorities I was a Communist.’

‘But you’re not a Communist.’

‘No, but they know I “consort” with Communists.’

‘And that’s so bad?’

‘It would mark me for life. In my country, being a Communist makes you an outcast. It’s like being a member of a particular religion. You have to be prepared to give up everything for the cause.’

‘That’s what it’s like in England.’

‘Not as bad,’ he said flatly. ‘He said I slept with Communists – or at least with one Communist.’

Verity narrowed her eyes. ‘But you don’t.’

‘No, I don’t, but I would like to.’

Verity was silent for a moment and took a sip of her brandy. ‘Well, I suppose if you are going to be accused of sleeping with the enemy, then you better had.’

She got up from her chair, put the glass down on the dressing-table and began to unzip her dress – a little black dress which rode high on her legs and which she knew made her look rather taller than she actually was. In Spain, her face had become almost gaunt but, since her return, she had put on a little flesh and the weariness had gone out of her. Her skin glowed – the sea air seemed to do it good – and the black marks beneath her eyes had vanished. Sam watched from the bed, unmoving, as she kicked off her shoes and stepped out of her dress. It was hot in the cabin and bead marks of sweat stood out on her forehead and upper lip.

‘Well, do I have to do this all on my own?’

Sam came to life, getting off the bed, upsetting a little of his brandy as he did so. He took the girl in his arms and kissed her as he had imagined kissing her all those weeks they had trailed round English provincial towns together. He released her and took off his shirt, studs bursting in all directions. Then he took off his shoes and socks.

‘Why do men look so ridiculous in their socks?’ he said, trying to sound relaxed but failing.

‘And girls in camiknickers?’

Sam gulped and found himself at a loss for words. After a minute or two standing in the middle of the cabin kissing, Verity said, ‘Have you got a . . . you know?’

‘What? Oh, one of those. I believe I have.’

It was so difficult for the man, he thought. It didn’t do to look calculating but without a French letter . . . He opened the drawer of the table beside his bed and, over his shoulder, Verity saw a photograph with the Durex on top of it.

‘Whose photo is it?’

‘Just a snapshot,’ he said hurriedly.

There was something in his voice which made Verity reach over and take it before he could shut the drawer. ‘You don’t mind me looking, do you?’

The camera had caught the pretty girl in her gingham dress looking at the baby in her arms with that combination of bewilderment and ecstasy which marks out a young mother with her firstborn.

‘It’s your wife and baby, isn’t it?’

‘I . . . yes, but . . .’

Verity raised her hand and slapped him hard on the side of his face.

‘But you never asked me,’ he said miserably. And it was true. In all the weeks she had known him, she had never asked if he were married. Somehow, she had assumed he was unattached. He had certainly never mentioned a wife. She felt the greatest fool. Of course a man like Sam Forrest would be married. Wasn’t every man she had ever desired married?

Not quite, she reminded herself. Not quite . . .

The next morning the sun shone, the sea was lapis lazuli and the long chairs were soon filled with women coating themselves in Nurona sun-tan cream. Even Lord Benyon ventured on to the sun deck and sat, shrouded in a rug, alongside Marcus Fern. The two men were discussing the speech he was to make to the New York business community.

Verity could not resist interrupting them to ask what he was going to say about the state of Britain. ‘Will you talk about the way in which our industry is owned by the rich, worked by the poor and profits the shareholder? Will you tell them how the armaments manufacturers are getting fat on selling arms to the Fascists? Will you tell them about the stinking poverty of our great cities? Will you tell them how our great banks are run by men who think only of profit and never of principle? I imagine not.’

‘No, I will not, my dear, because to do so would make us look as though we were still living in Dickens’ England. Besides, it isn’t true – not all of it, anyway. I will tell them I travelled across the Atlantic in one of the greatest ships ever built, and built in England. I will tell them they must open their markets to our goods and invest in our industry. I will tell them we need their economic aid to keep the peace in troubled times.’