“Oh, you great romantic you.” She kissed him again.
Mr Bradshaw approached. He walked slowly, a worried frown etched on his well-worn features. “Oh, hello there. Enjoying the sea air I see.”
“How is your wife, Mr Bradshaw?” asked Natasha, as she clung on to her husband.
“She’s sleeping at this moment. Dr Waverley has sedated her. Pauline complained of burning to her throat and abdominal pains. If she doesn’t improve by the time we reach Crete, Dr Waverley wants her hospitalised.”
“It’s as serious as that?” quizzed Ben.
Bradshaw hesitated and checked that they were out of earshot before he responded. “Do you know what I think? I think she was poisoned.”
“That’s absurd, Mr Bradshaw,” gasped Natasha. “Who would want to poison your wife?”
The older man now trembled. “Do you remember when I told you about the ham being off? Suppose I was correct in my assumption. Just suppose that the ham was poisoned.”
Ben placed a reassuring hand on the shoulder of the worried man. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit rash, Mr Bradshaw? She surely would have shown symptoms before this time if it was indeed the ham.”
“Davenport be damned! He is up to this.”
The younger couple was surprised by the sudden show of temper.
“What makes you say that? I thought he was a good friend of yours?”
“He was never a friend of mine, Ben. We’re used purely as ornaments; mere trinkets in his treasure chest. Davenport loves the publicity. He must have the richest and most popular celebrities sailing his ship.”
Natasha spoke up. “But why would he poison your wife? It doesn’t make sense. What possible reason could…”
“Because, my dear, it will make room for two younger, more desirable guests.”
It was Ben‘s turn to interrogate the despondent man. “Between you and me, Bradshaw; how did he rope you into this? I can’t imagine you and your wife, if indeed she is your wife, being in an acting agency?”
The man seemed bemused. “Whatever are you talking about, old chap? Acting agency? Has the sun boiled your brain?”
Ben laughed loudly. “You’re good, Bradshaw… bloody good.”
“Whatever do you mean? My wife is lying, possibly on her death bed, and all you can do is insult me.”
Ben continued with the verbal onslaught. “Your so-called wife is not on her death bed. Do you think I’d report to Davenport if you slipped up? Do me a favour? This charade may be a little melodramatic, but if I wanted a mystery, I’d have signed up for one of those whodunnit weekends.”
“A good morning to you.” Bradshaw stormed off in a huff.
“Don’t you think that you were a bit hard on him, Ben?” asked Natasha.
“Hard? No. He’s being paid for this remember; besides, he’s probably happy that we didn’t trip him up.”
Ben looked past Natasha. Bates stood watching them. He was motionless, attired in his butler’s outfit. The tall, balding man just stared.
“Come on, Nat, let’s go back inside and prepare for Iraklion.”
******
The party was assembled on the deck. The fog had once more engulfed them as they anchored off Iraklion. There was no warning. The fog seemed to envelop them suddenly, just as it did in Naples. On the deck, preparing to disembark were only the prize winners, Captain Perkins, First Officer Pringle and Davenport. Most of Ben’s male colleagues wore slacks and shirts, apart from Quinn, who was attired in a maritime blazer and naval cap with white pants. The girls had settled for short dresses and feathered headbands. They appeared elegant with their flapper fashion parade, oblivious to their outdated mode of dress.
The fog grew denser and limited their vision as they tried to catch a glimpse of the Cretan harbour.
“This is unbelievable? We must have brought the English weather with us,” moaned Cindy Cooper, who held onto her husband.
“There is no way we can approach the harbour in this,” bellowed Captain Perkins. “It’s too dangerous. Anyone wishing to go ashore can go by boat. A couple of my men will escort you ashore, and if the fog has not lifted by five 'o'clock, they will be waiting by the harbour for your return.”
Joe intervened. “I think you’ll need more than one boat, Captain. What about the other passengers?”
“You appear to be the only passengers wishing to go ashore. One boat will suffice.”
The ten travelling companions climbed into the boat and the sailors rowed for the harbour. The long oars cut through the clear blue water with ease. The party complained about the intense heat when they disembarked from the boat, their passports at the ready. The view that confronted them was clear. A large Venetian fortress, a magnificent spectacle appeared from out of the gloom.
“Where is passport control?” asked Ross, who turned around to address the sailors.
They had departed into the thick fog, which was still evident to their rear.
“Shit, would you take a look at this,” suggested Ross.
The Empress Medina was engulfed in a blanket of fog. The sea was no longer visible to them.
“This is weird,” stated Ross.
Ben grinned. “Put your passports away folks. We appear to have evaded passport control.”
The party, after they had visited the Venetian fortress and browsed through the market, had decided on a Greek taverna to quench their thirst. The fog had lifted and the view was magnificent from their vantage point. To their front was a large lake that flowed into the sea, and to their rear was the mountains. They had decided to sit outside, which allowed the blazing sun to scorch their lily-white flesh. The service was slow, but welcome, as they savoured their drinks. The locals talked among themselves and probably discussed the strange looking party in the fancy clothes.
Ben scowled. “Doesn’t anyone find it strange we were the only ones out of a total of five hundred and thirty people that decided to visit Crete?”
“Don’t forget, Ben, they’re not really holidaymakers. They’re merely working. Acting out Davenports fantasy.”
“Do you think so, Danny? Even so, you’d expect some of them to at least come ashore. Something doesn’t ring true here… Take the old woman, Mrs Bradshaw. I’m sure she wasn’t acting this morning. And her husband. He took offence when I tried to suggest that he was acting.”
“Maybe she is really ill. Actors can be sick you know?”
“Sure they can, Sarah, but doesn’t anyone else feel there’s something strange going on? It’s not just the Bradshaw’s.”
Ben was tempted to relate of his experience with Penelope, but the thought of having to confront Natasha dissuaded him. More drinks were ordered and soon the group was in the throes of merriment. They found another taverna down a side street that had a Karaoke machine, which allowed Norman Quinn and his wife Wendy to perform a comical rendition of Bat out of Hell.
“Come on, Ross, you look like you could do a Lionel Ritchie number. In fact, you look a little like him,” stuttered Cindy, who drew on her cigarette.
“More like Sammy Davis Junior,” joked Cheryl. “And believe me; you don’t want to hear him sing.”
Sarah joined in. “Come on, Danny, you’re a musician. Sing us a song.”
“I only sing for money.”
Cindy took another puff on her cigarette. “Come on, honey, show them.”
Danny turned off the Karaoke machine and motioned for the guitar that was hung on the wall. The Greek barman shrugged and handed him the instrument. Danny ground out his cigarette and proceeded to tune the guitar. He strummed a few chords and cleared his throat. “Imagine there’s no heaven… It’s easy if you try… No hell below us… Above us only sky.”
The entire party joined in, and the wives cuddled their husbands as the Lennon ballad ended. Danny then speeded up the tempo and performed a version of My Way by the Sex Pistols. Cindy, Natasha, and Sarah took to the floor and relived their punk rock days. Ben downed his beer and joined in with Joe. What a curious sp
ectacle they created, clad in twenties attire and dancing to punk rock, their heads shaking to and fro.
“And more, much more than this, I did it my way.”
Norman Quinn made his way to the bar, tripped, and sent a table of glasses crashing to the ground, much to the amusement of the other revellers, who had enjoyed the show.
Ross pulled him to his feet and laid him on a bench outside to sleep it off. “I think he’s had a little too much to drink, Wendy.”
“You can say that again,” said the plump wife.
“What does he do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“He’s a tax inspector. He didn’t want anyone to know, but even a tax inspector can have a life, right, Ross?”
“Wendy, if I knew what he did for a living, I would’ve left him on the floor.”
“The record shows, I took the blows, and did it my way.”
The entire compliment of the taverna burst into applause. Danny took his bow and left the stage. He halted and looked towards the door, which caused others to follow his eyeline.
Bates, his tall, gangly frame silhouetted the doorway, and the sun tried to intrude past his unwelcome torso. “It appears you’ve lost all track of time. We sail in twenty minutes.”
Ben looked at his wristwatch. “Davenport will be furious.”
The party said their farewells and followed the butler into the soaring heat of the day. The mysterious fog reappeared and shrouded the Empress Medina as they climbed into the boat. When they neared the luxury liner, Ben looked up at the ship and wondered what other enigmas she had to offer.
Chapter Eight
A knock at the door distracted Ben from his menial task of shaving. He answered the door, bare-chested, his face still covered in lather.
“Ross, you are early. What gives?”
“Come with me, Ben. There’s something I have to show you.”
“Can’t it wait until later? We’re getting ready for dinner.”
“No, Ben, this can’t wait.”
Ben rinsed his face, put on a shirt and followed the Jamaican bus driver. They headed towards a staircase that led to the lower deck.
Ben hesitated. “Hold on, Ross. Davenport insisted that the lower deck was out of bounds to us.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Ross continued to descend the starircase. He halted opposite two elderly women, who seemed not to notice the pair and continued to browse through their magazines.
“Ross snatched one of the magazines from the grasp of one of the women and offered it to Ben. “Look at the magazine. Read the headlines.”
“Excuse me, young man,” complained the elderly woman.
Ben ignored her. “The butcher of Hanover executed. So what?”
Ross seemed disappointed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Fritz Haarmann? He murdered twenty-six young boys and sold the flesh of some as meat.”
“Meaning what? I can’t say I’ve heard of him.”
Ross raised his voice. “He terrorised Hanover in the 1920’s. He was executed in 1925. Decapitated.”
“How do you know this, Ross?”
“I read, and one of my pastimes is studying serial killers.”
“Charming hobby… What is your point, Ross?”
“My point is why are those two women reading magazines from 1925?”
“Because, Ross, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re playing out Davenport’s fantasy.”
“Yes, but why down here on the lower deck? Why act out the fiasco here? We’re not allowed down here remember.”
Ben pondered deeply. “I don’t know. Maybe he has some other prize winners on the lower deck that we’re unaware of.”
“That is not the reason I brought you down here. Come on, follow me.”
Ross led Ben into the library. Old photographs adorned its panelled walls. Ross faced one such photograph and pointed towards it. “Here, take a look at this.”
Ben studied the black and white snap. It was a group photograph. Naval personnel lined up in the rear, and civilians stood in the front rank. Ben noticed Captain Perkins, as well as First Officer Ingle in the line-up. At the front was a variety of people that he recognised from the cruise. Davenport was located in the centre, stood between Colonel Miles and Harry Bradshaw, who posed with his wife. Also in the line-up was Daniel and Belinda Wells, Jeremy Grainger, Frank Pollock and of course the wonderful and desirable Penelope Craven. Mixed in among them were five couples that Ben did not recognise.
“So, it’s a photograph of Davenport and his mates.”
“Look at the date above, Ben.”
“The Empress Medina, June 1925.”
“Weird, eh?”
Ben shrugged. “It‘s all part of the game. Davenport obviously had the photographs doctored. There must be some explanation.”
“There is gentlemen.” They turned to face Davenport. “You see, I wanted to make everything as authentic as it was in the twenties. Of course this is a mock photograph. I had this taken days before we set sail from Naples. Is it not impressive?”
“Impressive isn’t the word I’d use, Mr Davenport. Strange comes to mind.”
“Strange, Mr Harper? Why strange?”
“You made the lower deck off limits to us. For what reason?”
“Yes, I did, and you deliberately went against my wishes. You see, you’re not the only guests aboard the Empress of Medina.”
Ben interrupted. “You mean, you have other guinea pigs acting out roles down here?”
“You could put it that way, but guinea pigs is a bit harsh a word, do you not think? The five couples in the photograph; they’re my guests on the lower deck. In case it has escaped your attention, I never forced you to take this cruise. You came voluntarily and are free to leave as soon as we dock in Cyprus if that is your desire. I’ve treated you as I would my dearest friends. I’ve lavished you with expensive food and drink, and even supplied you with adequate funds to accommodate your temporary grand life style. All I have had in return is words of contempt and suspicion. That is what is wrong with the modern society; trust is obsolete. I treat you to a cruise of a lifetime, but there must be something in it for me, you presume. Believe me, I’ve told you the truth. I may die aboard the Empress of Medina, and if fate decrees this, then so be it. This is a dying man’s last fling; a chance to see what my grandfather found so fascinating about this ship, nothing less and nothing more. I wish to see my final days out in the company of friends. Friends who will respect me and remember me for my generosity and my goodwill. True, people find me a little eccentric, but please let me see my last days out in the company of loyal friends. Now, if you’ve finished your tour of the lower deck, we will dine. I believe roast pheasant is on the menu tonight.”
******
Roast pheasant indeed was on the menu that evening, along with a variety of other succulent meats. Missing from the captain’s table was Norman Quinn. He decided to sleep off his hangover, but that did not prevent his wife from enjoying her sumptuous dinner. Again, Ben’s eyes were attracted towards Penelope. She seductively ate from a bunch of grapes, which reminded him of an alluring Roman Empress he had once seen in a movie. The Bradshaw’s were also absent from dinner, as Pauline apparently still suffered with her stomach pains.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself in Iraklion,” said Davenport to the Coopers.
“It’s a marvellous place, Mr Davenport. I only wish we could’ve stayed longer,” sighed Cindy.
“You are young and time is on your side. There’ll be many such ports as Iraklion in your life-time.”
Cindy felt uncomfortable when she noticed the eyes of Daniel Wells burn into her. The bespectacled man with the gap tooth leered at her. She noticed his magnificent diamond rings as he fed his face. His pretty wife sat filing her nails, oblivious to the fine fare in front of her. Belinda Wells was at least fifteen years younger than her husband was. She was a pretty young thing, who chewed her gum as she continued to preen her long nails. What she saw in Wells,
Cindy could not comprehend. He appeared smarmy in his pin-stripe suit with his slicked back oily hair. He was a short man, about forty years of age.
“Tell me, dear, what are you thinking,” asked Wells unexpectedly?”
“Excuse me,” replied Cindy.
“What are you thinking? What is a pretty young thing like her doing with an oddball like him?”
“N-n-no,” she stuttered. “I was thinking nothing of the sort.”
“Oh come, dear; many people have asked me such a question, haven’t they, darling?”
Belinda nodded and continued to chew frantically on her gum.
“And do you know what happens to people who ask me that?”
“I don’t know. What happens to them?” quizzed Cindy.
“I make them disappear of course.”
Cindy stared at him. His face was serious. She felt a shiver shoot down her spine. Wells, along with his wife saw her discomfort and erupted in a fit of laughter.
“I don’t think that was very funny, mister”, bellowed Danny. “I think you owe my wife an apology.”
Wells ceased to laugh and his lip curled up in a snarl. “You think I owe your wife an apology, do you?”
“Come on, gentlemen. Drink your marvellous champagne and forget the incident. I’m sure Mr Wells did not mean to offend you, Mr Cooper,” interrupted Davenport.
“Of course not,” smiled Wells. Do you know, Charlie Chaplin married a sixteen-year-old girl, Lita Grey last year? No? Because he was famous, it was accepted.”
“Charlie Chaplin?” queried Danny. “Where did he come into this?”
A loud coughing averted everyone's attention towards the colonel. He held his throat and was clearly in great difficulty. He keeled to the ground and held his stomach. His eyes bulged and his face was crimson as he rolled about on the ground. He vomited wildly, which brought gasps of horror from the other diners.
Dr Waverley was called for and four sailors carried the colonel out of the dining room. People murmured amongst themselves when Davenport briskly made his way to the galley, a sense of urgency in his step.
The Cruise Page 5
