Dangerous Sea (31 page)

It was symbolic that their coming together had been on board a ship in the middle of the Atlantic. On dry land they would be
somewhere
but here they were
nowhere
– without the ties and restraints that so often rubbed at a marriage like a horse’s harness. Marriage would have made her feel trapped by all the expectations Edward’s family would have of her: the expectation that she would give up her career and ‘settle down’, breed and turn to bridge afternoons and church charities and, above all, their – quite understandable – expectation that she would fail. She would not be dependent on him in any material way and would keep the respect she had already earned of him by simply being true to herself. The disapproval of society she could bear without much anguish.

‘Mind if I join you?’

The voice was dark and the American accent like ground coffee. ‘Oh, it’s you, Sam.’

‘Yes, it’s me. Shouldn’t it be?’

‘It’s your ship as much as mine.’

‘I know, and the ocean’s kinda large too. Still, I thought you might say there wasn’t room enough for the both of us.’

She looked into his clear eyes – almost the colour of the sea – the broad shoulders which spoke of hard manual work and the strong chin. She remembered why she had liked him so much and was inclined to think she had been hard on him – not that she regretted her refusal to sleep with him. It was funny how being in love – she supposed she was, in her own peculiar way, in love with Edward – made her want to be kind to all her friends.

‘Looking forward to seeing your wife and son? What did you say her name was?’

‘I didn’t but her name’s Marty and he’s called Richard, or rather Dick – after my father.’

‘Who was your father?’

‘That’s such an English question!’

‘How do you mean?’

‘In the States it’s who you are, not who your father is.’

‘Unless it’s Roosevelt,’ she said drily.

‘
Touché
,’ he said. ‘But let me answer your question. Who are “my people”? Who was my father? Some might say nobody. I’d say he was a great man. He came over from your country maybe fifty years ago. He had nothing – no parents living, no money, no schooling. He could hardly read – taught himself by working his way through
The Pilgrim’s Progress
. I guess it was his Bible. He always went to it when he needed wisdom. Anyways, he had a tough time – did all sorts of labouring jobs, then got himself a job as a longshoreman – what you would call a docker. That was difficult. Jobs were almost hereditary – passed down from father to son.’

‘But you didn’t inherit his job?’

‘No, I didn’t. My pa met a real nice girl and they had me and he vowed I’d have the schooling he didn’t get. I was bright enough, I guess, and he was proud enough of me but then he got up and died. He was just sixty.’

‘So then there was just you and your mother?’

‘You might say so but my father lived on in our house long after he had shuffled off that “mortal coil” – oh, yes, my pa liked old Shakespeare too and made me read him. What I mean is – he taught me my principles – about when to fight and when to turn the other cheek, about . . . I don’t know . . . withstanding corruption. There’s a lot of it about.’

‘Even in your union?’

‘Specially there, or at least that’s where I notice it most. A guy’ll sell out to the bosses or take back-handers. Some of it you can put down to the compromises you’re expected to make to get some of what you want – negotiation. But some of them – good men in their youth – forget why they’re where they are. They get the taste of money! Maybe it doesn’t smell, as that Roman emperor said, but it does taste good, that’s for sure – dirty but good. Don’t think I’m pretending to be what I’m not. It’s just because I’m human that I made that pass at you.’

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have slapped you.’

‘No, I deserved a slap. What hurt much more was that look in your eye which said I had lost your respect, failed some test.’

‘Please, Sam . . .’

‘No, let me have my say. I felt like a heel. I love my wife and son. They’re the best things in my life and I ought to have had respect for them and for myself.’

Verity wondered if this didn’t amount to calling her a whore but decided he did not mean it to sound that way so she let it pass.

‘I guess all this rigmarole is just to say I’m sorry. Forgive me?’

‘Sam! Of course I forgive you.’ She took his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips. ‘There, I forgive you.’

‘Not butting in, I hope?’

Edward was standing behind her, leaning on his crutch with a quizzical smile on his face.

‘We were saying goodbye,’ Sam said. ‘You’re a lucky man, Corinth.’

‘I know that, Sam, but thank you for reminding me.’

When Edward and Verity were alone together, neither wanted to talk about love and lust. Words seemed beside the point when everything worth saying couldn’t be said – or at least not yet. Instead, Verity said, ‘Have you thought any more about Jane Barclay’s confession?’

‘What? Do we tell the New York police? Or do we believe it?’

‘Both, either.’

‘Jane definitely faked that attack on her in the steam room. She’s a strong-willed lady and perfectly capable of an act of violence to defend her husband and herself. Don’t forget they have both been harried and harassed by people like Senator Day for a long time. Perhaps the insult at the Captain’s table was the straw that broke the camel’s back.’

‘But you don’t think so?’

‘Well, you see, V, at the ball last night Warren made a point of telling me that her confession was nonsense.’

‘He did, did he? So what? A wonderul man like Warren would never suspect his own wife and, even if she had convinced him she had done the deed, he would naturally do what he could to protect her.’

‘You don’t think Warren could have killed Day? If he saw Day at the swimming-pool with his wife, might not jealous rage . . .?’

‘
Othello?
’

‘Too neat perhaps?’

‘Let’s look at our other suspects and see who we can eliminate.’ Verity thought for a moment. ‘I suppose Sam Forrest is the strongest suspect. He came up from the bowels of the ship just before your idiotic race with Frank and Perry. He admitted he had resisted Day’s attempt at blackmail. In a moment of rage, he could have hit him over the head. We know he’s used to living in the violent world of American union politics and, to prove it, he carries a gun.’

‘And you think he could use it?’

‘In certain circumstances but, of course, he didn’t use it on Day.’

‘No, he was hit on the head by some unidentified blunt object, probably the hammer missing from the toolbox of the man repairing the controls to the steam room.’

‘Does that suggest the knock on the head was unpremeditated? You would hardly go to kill someone without a weapon.’

‘I don’t know, V. I think the idea of killing Day was premeditated even if the actual killing was not.’ They were silent, thinking things over. Then Edward said, ‘Stop being objective about Sam. Tell me what your instinct is. What’s your gut feeling?’

‘Feminine intuition?’

‘No, I just respect your judgement of character.’

Verity was pleased. ‘I think he is basically honest and not a violent man. The fact that he refused to do some deal with Day which might have made him very rich supports my view. I don’t think he did it.’

‘Nor do I,’ Edward said and they smiled at each other with relief.

‘Who else?’ Verity persisted. ‘What about Marcus Fern? You said that, rather surprisingly, he carries a gun.’

‘Yes. He’s a tough cookie and he keeps on asking me about Day – or at least he did last night. He has come up the hard way, he says so himself. A boy from the wrong class without family, with no one with an established City position to help and protect him. You have to be very good to beat the system and you would probably fight hard to keep what you had won.’

‘I should think so! He’s the exception which proves the rule. It’s exactly what we in the Party object to – the “old boy” thing, the shake of the hand, the nod and the wink. He’s probably a Mason. That’s the sort of club he might be allowed to join.’

‘Yes, well, that doesn’t make him a murderer but it does mean he’s capable of being tough when his back’s against the wall.’

‘But what’s his motive? Why would Day have had anything against him or been able to blackmail him? I agree that, having fought his way up to become a confidant of men like Benyon, he has a lot to lose but there’s absolutely no evidence he had heard of Day before that moment at the Captain’s table. Is it likely their paths would ever have crossed? I doubt it.’

‘You’re right but the jury’s still out on him. He’s an enigmatic man.’

‘You’ve got that look on your face, Edward. I think you know who killed Day.’

‘I don’t know what you mean, V. What look?’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me. That look of having trapped a mouse . . . you can’t fool me. Out with it.’

‘You sound like a dentist. I tell you what, you get on with investigating Bernard Hunt. Try and find out where he was when Day was hit on the head. He gives me the creeps so much I really can’t talk to him . . . He put his filthy paws on Frank . . .’

‘Don’t be silly, Edward. Frank’s a big boy. If he can throw a pillow at a man with a gun, he can cope with Hunt. Talking of Major Cranton, I mean Blane, why did he do that awful thing?’

‘Murder Barrett?’

‘No, I can see he panicked when he recognized Barrett and knew that Barrett had recognized him but why did they end up in the cold store and why did he . . . you know . . . take all his clothes?’

‘Blane was desperate to get rid of Barrett before his cover was blown so he persuaded Barrett to meet him “to do a deal”. After all, Barrett couldn’t have Blane arrested just for being on board.’

‘He was travelling under a false name on a false passport. If the Captain had locked him up he wouldn’t have had a chance of taking a shot at Benyon.’

‘The passport would be a matter for the immigration authorities in New York. The Captain couldn’t have locked him up for that.’

‘But how did it happen – the killing, I mean? Barrett was an experienced Special Branch man. How did he allow himself to be outwitted by Blane?’

‘I don’t know yet. No doubt we’ll find out when Blane talks but I expect Barrett did what I did.’

‘What was that?’

‘Underestimated him. Blane seemed a pathetic character and, of course, he was but I forgot that weak men, inadequates, can still do damage. The meeting took place near the kitchens. There was so much going on down there – so many cooks and scullions and what-not rushing around – that, paradoxically, it was just the place they could meet without anyone noticing. Blane managed to knock him unconscious and then dragged him into the cold storage room.’

‘But why take his clothes? To humiliate him?’

‘I would guess for a more practical reason. Barrett was only unconscious and not dead. Maybe Blane didn’t feel like hitting him again. He didn’t find it easy to work himself up to carrying out an act of violence, like shooting Benyon. Anyway, it might have been messy. He wouldn’t have wanted blood on his clothes. An easier option must have occurred to him. Naked, Barrett would die very quickly from hypothermia.’

‘Ugh, how horrible! But why hook him up among the carcasses – that was disgusting.’

‘For the same reason. Hiding him among the carcasses would delay discovery until he was dead.’

‘Poor Barrett! Secret policemen aren’t my favourite people but what a horrible way to die.’

Edward was uneasy. Was
he
a secret policeman? After all, he took his orders from one.

Verity was talking again. ‘So you think Hunt killed Day? Is that what I’m to try and establish?’

‘No. I want you to eliminate him if you can. I believe I do know who killed that bad man but I need to think about it. Perhaps it’s not my job to bring Day’s killer to justice.’

‘You mean it’s not your job but maybe it’s your duty?’

‘In a naughty world, oughtn’t we to do our bit to clean it up?’

‘Don’t parlourmaids sweep the dirt under the carpet?’

‘We don’t approve of that, do we?’ Edward said primly. ‘In fact, we have had occasion before now to criticize the police for doing exactly that.’

Verity sighed. ‘You must do what is right. Surely that is the one principle we both believe in and you’ve only got a few hours in which to do it. We dock about five this afternoon. The Purser told me we’re a bit behind schedule. It’s now . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘. . . seven. Can you wrap it all up in ten hours?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘When did you know who had killed Day?’

‘When the conjurer took the rabbit out of the hat.’

Verity found Bernard Hunt eating breakfast, a copy of the ship’s newspaper propped up against the toast-rack in front of him.

‘Might I join you or would you rather be alone?’ Verity inquired, with one of her most persuasive smiles. ‘It’s probably rather awful eating breakfast with someone who’s almost a complete stranger but, I don’t know why, I feel that – when we all troop off the
Queen Mary
– some sort of chapter will close and we’ve not really had a chance of getting to know each other.’

‘By all means join me, Miss Browne. Waiter! Bring a chair for the lady, will you, and . . . coffee?’

‘Yes please.’ She offered another smile to the waiter. ‘I wanted to ask you if . . . if there had been any more news . . . about the Poussin.’

‘Oh that,’ Hunt sighed. ‘It’s a great disappointment but there we are.
La commediaè finita
. There’s no point in brooding. Actually, Miss Zinkeisen’s been most helpful.’

‘Miss Zinkeisen?’

‘Yes, I told you we know each other quite well and she was grateful I got her the commission to design the mural in the Verandah Grill. Anyway, she is going to introduce me to some of her Hollywood friends. The thing is, apparently, many of these film stars like investing their earnings – and you’ve no idea how much some of them earn – in property and art rather than stocks and shares. After the crash, the stock market doesn’t seem a sensible place to put one’s little all and if there’s a war – God forbid – the whole system will probably collapse.’