Fatal Venture (11 page)

Four or five days later, as, before dinner, he was passing through the music-room lounge, he heard his name called. It was Major Stott, who was drinking cocktails with some companions.

“Here’s the officer who can arrange it for you,” he said to a tall, white-haired man with a rugged face standing next him. “When we came aboard, my daughter forgot some books in our house near Basingstoke. She told Morrison about them that night and they were here on board before lunch next day. That was at Scapa Flow. Jolly good, I call it.”

“Can you do the same for me, Mr Morrison?” asked the rugged-faced man. His name was Carrothers and Morrison thought he was a stockbroker. “I want a document from my office in Galashiels. Can you have it here before lunch tomorrow?”

Morrison smiled. “Not so easy, Mr Carrothers, seeing that you don’t live near Southampton. However, I dare say I can deflect one of our flying boats to the Forth and pick it up there. It’ll cost you something. You don’t mind?”

They discussed details and then Carrothers turned to the others. “In spite of my friend’s presence, I will admit that the transport to and from the ship is good,” he declared. “I was told to be ready to start from my house at ten in the morning. At nine fifty-nine a Daimler drew up at the door with a uniformed chauffeur. I got in and was driven to the pier at Leith. A launch was waiting and just as we got into open water a flying boat came down beside us. I climbed on board and we were on the
Hellenique
about half past twelve. That was at the Orkneys. Quite good, I call it, too.”

“Yes, those flying boats are an idea,” agreed a small, dried-up man with the face of a lawyer.

“There’s no doubt the cruise is well run,” said a third man, the Mr Forrester who had travelled to the ship with the Stotts. “But you people” – he looked at Morrison –“know how to charge. And yet even with the high charges I wonder it pays. It does pay, I suppose?”

“Oh, come now, Forrester, you mustn’t ask him for secret history,” Stott protested, evidently anxious to help Morrison out. “Not fair. Eh, Morrison?”

Morrison grinned. “I can’t tell you about our finances, Mr Forrester,” he explained, “for quite a good reason: I don’t know about them myself. All I know is that my salary’s been paid all right up to now, and I hope it’ll go on.”

“The main thing from your point of view, no doubt,” Carrothers put in. “And quite right, too.” Morrison smilingly agreed.

“It ought to pay all right if you’re not too lavish in your expenses,” Forrester went on. “It’s certainly a good idea. Whose was it, by the way? I mean, the idea?”

Rather an inquisitive man, this Forrester, Morrison thought. He had booked from London and was evidently in some business, but Morrison did not know what. He was mildly popular on board. He had played at the tables in moderation and had taken a number of the shore excursions. He had shown himself friendly to Morrison and had stopped on different occasions to chat, but sooner or later he had always begun to ask questions. Indeed, in some subtle way he gave the impression that he was on board for some deeper motive than mere pleasure.

It occurred to Morrison that perhaps he represented a group of people who thought of running a rival ship. Probably not a gambling ship – there would not be room for a second – but a cheap cruising ship, as Bristow had originally intended.

Morrison had wondered whether, if so, he might himself take a hand? His notes would be worth a substantial sum to anyone considering such a venture. Why should he not have a try for the money?

Obviously, if a rival to the
Hellenique’s
were proposed, he could have nothing to say to it. But there would be no rivalry in a scheme for poor man’s cruising. On the other hand, if the idea of another ship was being mooted for either purpose, should Stott not be informed?

Altogether it had seemed to him that either for his own benefit or Stott’s he should find out what Forrester was after.

When, therefore, the man asked whose idea the cruise was, he answered him fully.

“The result at all events is certainly good,” Forrester approved. “And very ingenious also how you people have got round the anti-gambling laws. I shouldn’t have thought it was possible, but you seem to have done it.”

“Counsel’s opinion, I understand, that was,” Morrison said, smiling. “Some barristers were asked how it could be done and this is the result.”

“A nasty one for you, Willcox,” Carrothers chuckled, glancing at the small dried-up man. “Mr Willcox is a barrister,” he explained to Morrison.

Morrison felt the temper of the group. “No names were mentioned,” he said gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes. “I feel sure I’ve given nothing away, Mr Willcox.”

“Let them go on,” Willcox answered, “and with luck we’ll make the cost of the trip out of them for slander.”

That same evening Morrison had an experience which moved him intensely: indeed, he was rather shocked when he realised to what extent.

After dinner he went out on the deck for some air. The night was surprisingly warm and balmy for the time of year and most of the passengers were somewhere in the open. There was a dance forward and the strains of the band came to him, agreeably softened by distance. Dancing by the ship’s officers was for some reason frowned on, and he therefore kept away from the festivities, sinking into a chair beside the rail overlooking the after well deck. There he sat, enjoying the luxury and the peace and dreaming in a rather somnolent way of Margot Stott.

Presently a woman passed him, stopped, and after a moment came back. He had not glanced at her, but now he did so.

“Miss Stott,” he exclaimed, springing up. “Are you enjoying the night as I am?”

She moved over beside him and stood at the rail looking out at the reflection of the moon across the tiny wavelets.

“Yes, isn’t it gorgeous! I should be dancing, but I’ve had enough of it for the moment. I’d infinitely rather look at that sea.”

“Won’t you sit down?” he begged, drawing over another chair. “There’s no draught in the shelter of this boat.”

“I must go back soon,” she returned, “but I’d like to sit here for a little. It’s so extraordinarily peaceful. And
lovely.
I’d no idea there was scenery like what we’ve been seeing in the British Isles. I’m afraid I said that before, but it really is marvellous.”

They chatted in a desultory way about the cruise and its itinerary, and every moment Morrison felt himself coming more and more under the girl’s spell. Then she suddenly surprised him by asking the same question as Forrester had earlier. “Whose idea was the cruise? It certainly seems to have been an astonishing success.”

Morrison told her. She listened, apparently enthralled.

“Then the gambling part was my great-uncle’s?” she said when he had done. “Neither you nor Mr Bristow had thought of it?”

“No. Bristow’s idea was simply to throw large-ship cruising open to the man of small means. He never contemplated either the gambling or doing the thing in such an expensive way. Take the flying boats, for example. They simply lap up money. Though they were my idea, it was only in response to Mr Stott’s wish for comfort and convenience regardless of cost. Bristow’s idea had been a third-class sleeper and a local tender from the nearest port.”

“And you think Mr Bristow’s plan would have paid?”

“I’m sure it would. You see this ship was built to carry four thousand passengers and we would have carried at least three: at very nearly the same cost as we’re now carrying eighteen hundred. We didn’t contemplate a private bathroom for every cabin, you see.”

She was silent for some seconds, then gave a little sigh. “Oh, dear,” she said earnestly. “How much better all that would have been! What a pity Mr Bristow’s idea was not carried out!”

Morrison was startled. “You mean?” he asked anxiously. “You don’t approve of the gambling?”

She shook her head decidedly. “No, nor the luxury. I feel it’s all wrong. Don’t you think so yourself, Mr Morrison?”

Morrison hesitated. “Well, I confess I was brought up to consider gambling an evil,” he said slowly, “but I don’t know how far that was just the feeling of the time. The rooms are very well run, of course.”

She turned in her chair and looked at him. “I believe you’re hiding what you really think because my father and my uncle are mixed up in it. You needn’t really. I know enough about it. I’ve seen –” She broke off and shrugged lightly. “Oh, well, we needn’t talk about it. But tell me more of Mr Bristow’s original idea. That would have been really good. It would have given health and pleasure to a lot of people who couldn’t afford this.”

He enlarged on the plan, to her evident approval. They chatted on for a few minutes, then she changed the subject.

“You know my stepmother and her son are coming on Thursday?”

Both words and tone were correct, and yet something in her manner suggested a feeling of regret. “I know,” he answered. “You see, I have to arrange seats for them in the plane.”

“Of course.” She paused. Then continued: “They’ll enjoy all this; the dancing and, indeed, the gaming, too.”

The suggestion was now unmistakable. Undoubtedly there was bitterness in her mind! Morrison hesitated, hoping to avoid offence. “You and they don’t see eye to eye on these matters?” he presently essayed.

“We don’t really,” she returned; “but it isn’t that.” Then, as if she had been about to say too much, she added with a smile: “I’m afraid I’m jealous. I like to have my father to myself.”

“Naturally.” Morrison was glad of something safe to say. “Have they been married long: he and your stepmother?”

“Five years. These two couldn’t come with us because Percy had flu: quite a bad attack really.”

“Hard luck.”

She answered, “Yes, wasn’t it?” in an unsympathetic voice. “Father wondered if he ought to wait for the others, but I persuaded him not to.” She glanced around. “Oh, dear, there’s Mr Redfern looking for me. I promised him this dance and I forgot all about him. I must run.”

Morrison found he had a good deal to think of that night. He has never met anyone whose presence moved him as did Margot Stott’s. On many occasions he had had what he called “affairs” with social acquaintances, waitresses, girl clerks, and so on. But all these had proved slight and passing entanglements, from which no consequences, good or evil, had resulted. This time he hoped – or feared – things were different. Not only did he feel drawn to this young woman as never to any before, but on this occasion a strange and unexpected element entered into his desire – that he should not only obtain, but deserve, her good opinion.

It looked as if she did not pull too well with her stepmother: not perhaps surprising if one considered her age. Margot he judged to be about five-and-twenty, and if her mother had been dead any considerable time, as was probable, she and her father would have become excellent friends. From their manner to one another it was obvious that they were so still. It was natural that Margot would resent losing her privileged position.

But it was not natural that so sweet-tempered a girl should feel bitterness from such a cause. If Margot did not like her stepmother, it must be because she was an unpleasant woman. And if Margot was unsympathetic towards Percy Luff, it must be because he was an unpleasant young man. Morrison’s heart warmed still further to her, and he began to imagine her as unhappy in her home and needing sympathy and comfort, and to long for the intense joy of giving her both.

He continued all that night to halt between two opinions, at one time filled with delight that he had made this marvellous acquaintanceship, at another apprehensive that all he could possibly get out of it would be disappointment and pain.

All the same, the idea of avoiding her to save that pain never for one moment entered his head. He felt that no matter what the consequences might be, he would take what the gods seemed to be offering.

The next morning there took place another event which was to leave its mark on Morrison’s life. In itself it was entirely trifling, but later it became a source of worry and fear.

It occurred in connection with a hobby of the owner’s. John Stott was interested in archaeology and particularly in the prehistoric or very early architecture of the British Isles. For years he had been amassing notes from which he intended one day to write his
magnum opus
. From this point of view, the cruise had been a godsend to him, as he had been able to visit and sketch and photograph a large number of coastal ruins which would otherwise have been more difficult to reach. Usually he did the work himself, but if engaged elsewhere or not in the humour for the excursion, he was not above sending a deputy in his place. This was usually Bristow, but on occasion Morrison, who also was a fair amateur photographer, had been pressed into the service. Morrison had no particular objection to these researches – in fact, he rather enjoyed the work.

On that next morning, Stott called him to his suite, and, opening an Ordnance map of the Ullapool district, pointed to a couple of dots in an apparently inaccessible place on the northern shores of Loch Broom.

“Interesting old ruin there,” he explained. “Believed to belong to early Viking times. A man told me about it and advised me to see it. But I can’t get ashore today. I wish you’d go and get the usual stuff.”

Now, that day Morrison was busy and didn’t want to take the time off. However, he thought he could manage by letting Anderson do part of his work in addition to his own, and himself clearing up the remainder in the evening. Morrison disliked working after dinner, but it was often necessary, and when the need arose, he did it without grousing as part of his job.

He carried out his plan, explaining the matter to Anderson and getting an early boat ashore. Then with a copy of the map, he set off to find the ruin.

It proved a difficult job. There was no path to the place and the ground was rough and stony. Once he came to a stream, the bank of which he had to follow for nearly a mile before he could get across. Twice he reached peat bogs, dangerous-looking places with water shining between the coarse grasses and mossy patches of too vivid green. To get round these involved long detours, and nearly three hours had passed before, hot and tired and irritable, he reached his goal.