Dangerous Sea (28 page)

Edward felt rather ‘out of it’ not dancing. He would have given anything to have taken to the floor with Verity who proved to be a surprisingly good dancer. Despite her talk of the Lindy Hop and the Turkey Trot, he had somehow imagined she would consider dancing to be a ‘bourgeois’ activity but, along with reading the Communist Manifesto, it must after all have been part of her extra-curricular activities. He had, in fact, danced with her once before, at a nightclub in London but, at the time, he had had other things on his mind than admiring her skill as a dancing partner. It was disconcerting to see her in Benyon’s dinner jacket clasped to its turban-wearing owner. They were not dancing cheek to cheek, he was glad to note, but he itched to barge in between them and claim her for himself. He had never thought of Benyon as being physically attractive to the opposite sex but Verity seemed to be enjoying herself. Perry and Philly were dancing together and, when Sam got up with Mrs Roosevelt, he was left alone with Fern. Dressed in breeches and a black cloak, his red hair flaming above his head, gave him a wild look but this was misleading. Fern would always have his wits about him.

‘So, who do you think killed Senator Day?’ Fern began without excuse or preamble.

‘Oh, do we have to discuss that?’ Edward replied, a touch irritably.

‘I’m just curious, don’t y’know. I had an idea you thought it might be me.’

‘You’re right, I did.’ The pain in his knee made him speak bluntly. ‘You had the opportunity and you were the last person to see him alive.’

‘And what made you change your mind? That is, if you did change your mind.’

‘You’re too clever to be found with a corpse – if you had actually committed the murder.’

‘That could have been a bluff.’

‘Maybe. I certainly think you are ruthless enough.’

‘Thank you!’

‘You were at pains to tell me of the struggle you had to get where you are. However, when I met you down at the swimming-bath just after you had found Day, I was convinced by your description of finding the body: the green tie making the green line on the bottom of the bath look squiffy – that rang true.’

‘Thank you again.’

‘And you had no motive. The problem with Day is that too many people had a motive to kill him. To pick on someone who had no known motive seemed perverse.’ Verity swung into view dancing a polka with Sam Forrest. ‘Take Sam, for instance. Nice fresh young man but he had a motive. Day made an attempt to blackmail him . . . pressure him into helping in some business venture.’

‘I can’t imagine that young man had much to be blackmailed about.’

‘Oh, nothing serious – just girl trouble,’ Edward said airily, wishing now that he had not mentioned it. ‘You won’t say anything about it, will you . . . to him, I mean?’

‘Of course not. So I gather you don’t think he murdered Day either?’

‘Like you, he had the opportunity. This blackmail attempt happened just before Day was killed – while we were racing round the deck, damn it!’ Edward lifted his leg into a more comfortable position.

‘When you fell over?’ Fern asked innocently.

‘When I slipped, yes. My knee’s still dodgy after a car accident I had some time back.’

‘But you don’t suspect Sam of murder?’

‘Of getting away with murder, I do,’ Edward said grimly, watching him press Verity close to him as the polka became a waltz.

‘Seriously?’

‘Not seriously, no, otherwise I would hardly let him help guard our friend Benyon. Mind you, he doesn’t seem to require much guarding at the moment.’

Benyon was proving to be an agile and graceful dancer and his new partner, Madeleine Roosevelt, obviously took pleasure in his company.

‘But you think the man who murdered Barrett also murdered Senator Day and may try to harm Benyon?’ Fern persisted.

‘No, I’m pretty sure I know who killed Barrett. But, yes, he’s still looking for a chance to stop Benyon fulfilling his mission.’

‘Well then, why not arrest him?’

‘I don’t have the evidence, nor the authority. Benyon’s well guarded now,’ he said comfortably. ‘I don’t think he’ll try anything tonight but, if he does, we are ready for him. When we get to New York . . . if we ever do! – this trip seems to have been going on for weeks – then I’ll hand him over to the police and see what they can do.’

‘And the Senator’s murder has nothing to do with the threat to Benyon?’

‘I’m sure of it. In fact, I think I know who . . . Verity, come and sit by me. Sam’s had too much of you. I need attention. I’m an invalid, don’t forget.’

Verity and Sam fell into their seats, breathing heavily after their exertions and calling for champagne.

‘Look at Fairley and his wife. Don’t they look . . . exotic?’ Fern said.

The flaxen-haired girl in a highly revealing dress – Salome, she had told Edward – looked as if she might be crushed in the embrace of her husband. He was wearing one of his Othello costumes. ‘It’s a part I play so often – type-casting, you may call it – that I tend to use my own costumes unless the director has very strong views. They certainly don’t fit anyone else!’ He was a magnificent figure in a soldier’s short kirtle, a scarlet cloak slung over his shoulders. His powerful legs and arms glistened under greaves and he wore gold bracelets which lent a barbaric air to the whole.

After the waiters had cleared away the food, there was a mass invasion of the dance floor and Edward lost sight of all his table companions except for Warren Fairley who could never be lost in a crowd. He was now dancing with Verity. From his vantage point, Edward was in a perfect position to contemplate the festivities which now had something of a carnival air. As the Purser had been telling him earlier, fancy dress was both liberating and intoxicating. In a Pierrot costume or a toga, you were no longer yourself and if, for a moment or two at the beginning of the party, you felt faintly ridiculous there were always other people in even more absurd costumes. And the drink . . . the champagne! How it lifted the spirits and, though the real world might take its revenge the following morning, who but a temperance man would think to remind you of it?

As a waiter refilled his glass for the third time, Edward thought he recognized Philly – but it might have been Perry. The twins were so alike and, in their Pierrot and Pierrette costumes, almost indistinguishable. They appeared to relish the confusion over their identities. Such charm! Was it a curse or a blessing? He sighed. Why was it he felt quite sure the Senator’s murderer was someone he knew – rather than one of the other swirling figures whom he had not met? There were seven hundred First Class passengers and any one of these – in theory at least – might have done the deed. And then there was the crew. Was the Purser a murderer? He had every opportunity. There was nowhere on the ship he couldn’t go, but no . . . it was too absurd. And the Captain? He smiled to himself. No doubt the poor man felt like murdering someone but who could be more respectable . . . more like an archbishop than the captain of this great ship.

‘What are you smiling about?’

Fern had dropped back on to the gilt chair beside him, his red hair now partially hidden under a sombrero.

‘Fern, is that you behind that mask?’

‘It is indeed,’ he said a trifle breathlessly. ‘I am Zapata, who I am led to believe by your nephew was a Mexican bandit.’

‘He led the Indian
pueblos
in their fight to regain their ancestral lands.’

‘That’s what I said, a bandit. I suppose he died with a sword in his hand? I had to leave my sword in my cabin. I kept on tripping over it.’

‘As far as I remember, Zapata was murdered by a man he considered a friend but I may be wrong. I’m sure he had a sword in his hand though. But that cape, Fern, it must have had an effect on you. Didn’t I see you dance the fandango with a rather beautiful gypsy girl?’

‘Ah, yes, a fandango? It might have been a fandango. It certainly left me a bit puffed.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Whose?’

‘The gypsy’s.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t tell you. It’s not the sort of thing you ask a gypsy in mid-fandango. You know, Corinth, I thought I saw Barrett across the dance floor.’

‘But Barrett’s dead.’

‘I know he’s dead, old man, but all the same . . .’

‘Where did you think you saw him?’

‘Over there, by that huge vase of flowers.’

‘It must have been your imagination, but what say we go over and look?’

‘Oh, I very much doubt he would still be there.’

‘Why didn’t you go after him?’ Edward said, getting to his feet with some difficulty.

‘I told you, I was dancing. I don’t dance often. In fact, I can’t think when I last did dance but dash it – I think I’m rather good at it.’

They walked across the room, buffeted by dancers. Edward almost howled after one bruising encounter and he wasn’t mollified when he discovered it was Verity who had kicked him.

‘Edward! Gosh, sorry! Oughtn’t you to be in a chair? This is too rough for you.’

He gritted his teeth and said nothing. They got right across the room without seeing anyone who might be Barrett. Edward was just beginning to wonder how he would ever get back to his table when Fern took him by the arm. ‘Look! There, in the corner.’

A man was slouched in a chair, very drunk or deaf because, when Fern called to him, he took no notice. His back was towards them but there was something about the jacket . . . Edward hopped over and almost overbalanced as he laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. For a second he thought he must be dead. They were definitely Barrett’s clothes – the jacket, the Leander tie, the shirt even – but it wasn’t Barrett.

‘I say, I say . . . look here, whaty’doing?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Fern said. ‘We thought you were a friend of ours, a man called Tom Barrett. Do you know him, by any chance?’

The man had a walrus moustache, was aged about seventy and was puce in the face. He was very drunk and it looked as though that was his normal condition.

‘Barrett? Barrett? Never heard of him. Is this some sort of practical joke?’

‘I say,’ Edward put on his silly-ass voice, ‘dashed sorry and all that but you couldn’t tell me where you got those clothes, could you? It’s a regimental tie, isn’t it? I can’t for the life of me think which regiment though? The Guards, d’y’think? No, not the Guards.’

‘I’ve no idea what the fellow’s talking about,’ the old buffer said querulously. ‘I got these togs from the Purser’s dressing-up box, if you must know. Now clear off, will you. I need a drink.’

‘Of course, of course, sir. May I know your name, so I can stand you a drink tomorrow?’

‘No, you bloody well can’t. Now go away or I’ll call . . . I’ll call the Captain.’

Fern and Edward threaded their way back across the room. When they were seated again, Fern said, ‘What do you think of that? Looked as though he was telling the truth . . . about where he’d got the clothes. Do you think the Purser murdered Barrett?’

‘Don’t be an ass, Fern. It was just a place to hide the clothes – and a damn good place.’

‘Why not toss them overboard?’

‘Might have been seen. This was much more innocent. If he’d been spotted, he could easily have made up some excuse. The dressing-up chest is kept in the Purser’s office. People in and out all the time and no reason to lock it up.’

Fern was disappointed. ‘So we’re no further on then?’

‘Oh yes, we’re further on,’ Edward said but refused to elaborate.

The stage darkened and then into a spotlight walked the Purser who announced that, while Henry Hall and his band took a break, they were to be entertained by, as he put it, ‘stars from London’s glittering West End’.

This meant, to begin with, an energetic top-hatted and white-tied duo of tap dancers who modelled themselves on Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. What they lacked in elegance they made up for in energy and the girl had a figure which drew wolf-whistles from certain of the diners who were, as Sam said, ‘tanked up’. When they withdrew to a good hand they were replaced by the magician, Jasper Maskelyne. Looking every inch the matinée idol in top hat and tails, he embarked on a series of tricks and illusions which soon had the attention of even the rowdiest of the diners. Edward had heard Maskelyne’s name but never seen his act and was curious to find out how much of a charlatan the man really was.

He certainly had an air about him and he began with a fast-flowing series of traditional tricks which he performed with visible irony as if to say, ‘Isn’t this what you expect me to do?’, ending with the inevitable white rabbit drawn from his top hat. But after the rabbit, he seemed to surprise himself by finding in the hat a whole host of objects from a flat iron to a ladder and ending, once again, with a white rabbit and a seemingly endless rope of flags. He never spoke a word but his face was mobile and expressive. As the final white rabbit hopped off the stage, he gave an exaggerated yawn and looked first to one side of the stage and then the other, as if for help. He beckoned to a couple dressed, Edward guessed, as Antony and Cleopatra, sitting at a table by the stage and invited them to come up to him. At first reluctant, at the urging of their friends they climbed on to the stage and stood beside Maskelyne. Edward had no idea if these were genuine passengers or the magician’s assistants but, if the latter, they played their parts convincingly.

Edward watched as Maskelyne brought out a massive saw and heard a groan beside him. It was Verity.

‘Typical male hatred of the female. Watch, if you can bear it. He’s going to cut her in half.’ As if he had heard her, Maskelyne looked at his saw with displeasure and crushed it between his hands, as if it were a concertina, reducing it to a paper chain. The girl looked relieved but then anxious as he placed her on a bed and offered her male friend a hoop which he seemed to be urging him to encircle the bed. Since the bed was on a plinth, this was clearly impossible. Maskelyne looked annoyed and, taking the hoop from the young man, passed it without any difficulty over the girl as if she had gone through a tunnel.

The audience gasped and the young man once again took the hoop and once again failed to pass it round the girl and the plinth. Maskelyne took the hoop back and, instead of using it himself, rolled it into the wings. Then, passing his cape in front of the girl on the bed, he gradually raised it as if he were taking off a mask or lifting a curtain. As he did so, the bed with the girl on it rose slowly from the plinth and hovered above the stage. Verity grasped Edward’s hand and everyone in the room watched in silent amazement as the magician twisted the bed in the air and guided it around the stage before lowering it gently back on the plinth. He helped the young woman up and seeming, naturally enough, rather dazed she and the young man took a bow. The applause was considerable but there was an unease in it. They had been tricked – of course they had been tricked – but what was the nature of the trick? Where were the wires? Where were the pulleys which must have raised the bed?