Dangerous Sea

by David Roberts

  ‘Benyon, sure you’re all right?’ Edward asked again, needing reassurance that the worst had been avoided, though more by luck than anything else.

  ‘Yes – a bit shocked. It’s not often someone pulls a gun on you – at least, it’s never happened to me before and I sincerely hope it won’t happen again. But, thanks to Frank, I’m fine. Miss Browne’s right: he’s a hero. He saved my life.’ He looked as though he could hardly believe what had happened. He wanted to do something to make it real – to shake the boy’s hand, for instance – but, as Frank was holding a towel round his wounded arm, that wasn’t practicable.

  ‘How do you know all this . . . about Blane or whatever you called him?’ Verity demanded of Edward. ‘And I don’t understand why he wanted to murder Lord Benyon.’

  ‘I checked with . . . a friend of mine in London . . . on the telephone, don’t you know.’ He tried to sound casual. He had remembered that Verity did not know about Major Ferguson and would certainly not approve of his relationship with him. ‘He . . . my friend did a bit of research and then cabled me back with the info. Blane’s bunch of Fascists want above all to be taken seriously. Mosley doesn’t rate them and Ribbentrop certainly doesn’t. Ribbentrop gave them this little test. They had to stop Lord Benyon from meeting the President and perhaps persuading him to support us – financially at least – in standing up to Hitler. The only thing which can stop him now is American intervention and the Nazis will do everything they can to prevent it. That’s right, isn’t it, Blane?’

  There was no answer from the man crouched on the floor, who was rocking backwards and forwards as if in some sort of trance.

  ‘And it was Blane’s lot who took a pot shot at the car on our way to Southampton?’ Frank asked.

  ‘I don’t doubt it. They failed with that but they had Blane on board so they must have thought they still had a chance. But they hadn’t counted on you being on guard. Well done, my boy! I’m proud of you.’

  Verity wasn’t listening. She was standing in front of Frank. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I must have sounded like a pig. I meant what I said. You’re a real hero and if I wasn’t worried about your poor arm, I would kiss you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. Thanks a lot though.’ Frank sounded pleased but embarrassed. There was some colour in his cheeks again. ‘By the way, did you know your lipstick’s gone all wonky?’

  ‘Has it?’ she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘I fell when I tipped your uncle on to his bed.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So that’s why he’s got lipstick all over his face.’

  ‘This isn’t the time to be talking about make-up,’ Edward said brusquely. ‘What were you doing here anyway? I thought you would have gone to bed, Frank. I mean, thank God you hadn’t but . . .’

  ‘Of course not! You told me you were going to bed and I was on duty. It was my watch. We’ve been having a most awfully interesting chat, haven’t we, sir?’

  Benyon nodded. ‘The boy’s got a sound head on his shoulders, Corinth.’

  ‘If I can keep it there,’ Frank quipped.

  ‘What were you talking about?’ Edward was curious.

  ‘Oh, you know, economics, world peace – that sort of thing.’

  ‘Hmf,’ was all Edward found to say. He was impressed with his nephew’s sang-froid and felt very much to blame for not having been there when he was needed. Blane was still crouched on the floor, his face in his hands, whimpering. Unable to take out his irritation on anyone else, Edward snapped, ‘Do shut up, Blane. We can hardly hear ourselves think with all that weeping and wailing.’

  ‘And if you’re looking for sympathy,’ Verity added, ‘you won’t get it. You killed Tom Barrett, didn’t you?’

  Blane began to wail – a soft, keening noise which chilled the blood. ‘Stop that awful noise, man,’ Edward commanded but he took no notice.

  ‘I think he’s off his head,’ Verity opined. ‘Not that that’s any excuse in my book.’

  Fenton and Marcus Fern arrived but there was nothing for them to do, other than fuss round Lord Benyon and administer first aid to Frank, until the doctor came a minute or two later. When the Captain appeared, looking harassed but relieved, with a couple of his officers, the cabin started to look overcrowded and feel stuffy. Blane was taken away, still sobbing. The doctor insisted that the rest of them leave him to minister to his patient in peace so they all filed next door to Edward’s cabin. The Captain was angry with himself and with Edward. He had read Major Ferguson’s cable about Blane but Edward had talked him into agreeing not to put him in irons immediately but to wait until they reached New York where they could hand him over to the authorities. Edward had come to the conclusion that he was too pathetic a character to be a threat but he had underestimated the man – not by much but enough. He blenched. His judgement had been faulty and he had put two lives at risk.

  When the doctor had seen to Frank and prescribed bed, Verity and Edward were summoned back to escort him to his cabin.

  ‘Gosh!’ Frank exclaimed, yawning hugely. ‘I think I’d sleep even if we hit an iceberg.’

  ‘Please,’ Edward shuddered, ‘that’s just about the only disaster still waiting to happen.’

  They then returned to help Fenton put Benyon to bed. The doctor had given him a sleeping draught but he hardly needed it. He was quite exhausted by the night’s events and, if he was to greet the American press the next day – which was already this day – he had to get some sleep.

  Verity and Edward were too strung-up to sleep and, at Edward’s suggestion, they returned to his cabin. Fenton doled out brandy and then left them alone. Fenton, too, was feeling bad that he had not been where he could have been of use. He was off duty and had been partying with friends in the Tourist lounge. Edward told him not to be silly. ‘It wasn’t your watch. It was Frank’s and he acquitted himself well. And so did you, V. You got the gun off him as though you did that sort of thing every day.’

  ‘Thanks. I was just so cross I didn’t stop to think. So Cranton – I mean Blane – was one of Mosley’s men?’

  Edward was stretched out on his bed and Verity perched on the end of it.

  ‘Yes, but in the end he was too extreme . . . too batty even for the BUF.’

  ‘It was he who attacked Doris Zinkeisen’s mural?’

  ‘Yes. It was a mistake but he just couldn’t resist it. She was everything he hated and her black lady taunted him. He just had to show the world what he thought of it.’

  ‘But Bernard Hunt saw him with the bucket of paint.’

  ‘Yes, he was fortunate Blane did not try to kill him.’

  ‘Was Blane really a Major?’

  ‘No, a Captain. He served in the Worcestershire Regiment during the war. Did quite well as a matter of fact. He became a chum of a fellow officer – one William Joyce.’

  ‘Mosley’s propaganda chief?’

  ‘Yes. They had it in for what they called “Jewish Communists” – ironically mostly Conservatives who, in their jaundiced eyes, had betrayed “the cause”. Rabid anti-Semites, of course. Special Branch infiltrated their organization right from the start and has several agents in place so we knew they’d try to do something to prove they were more than a talking-shop.’

  ‘You mean Special Branch has agents in the . . . whatever you called it . . . the Imperial Fascist League?’

  ‘Oh yes – fully paid-up members.’

  ‘Golly, isn’t that a bit underhand?’

  ‘You sound like me,’ he smiled. ‘ “Not cricket” and all that bosh.’

  ‘No, I mean . . .’

  ‘You mean you’re wondering how many of your Comrades are actually Special Branch?’

  Verity sounded put out. ‘No! Yes. Anyway, how do you know so much about it? I’m suspicious.’ Edward made no comment and fortunately she chose not pursue her suspicions. ‘We know our enemies will stoop to anything. It’s a compliment really.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But he did kill Barrett. He may look pathetic but he is a kil
ler.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t doubt Barrett recognized him immediately and I suppose Blane knew he had been rumbled. Lured him down to the cold store for a “private chat” or something and bashed him over the head.’

  ‘Killed him in cold blood, as it were. But Barrett was armed. Surely he shouldn’t have allowed . . .?’

  ‘Yes, I fear he must have underestimated Blane, as I did. We’ll know more when we’ve questioned him.’

  ‘What will they do with him when we reach New York?’

  ‘I don’t know. They may arrest him but my guess is that they’ll tell Captain Peel to take him back to England to be dealt with.’

  ‘Won’t he need extraditing or whatever you call it?’

  ‘Maybe but they’ll want to avoid any publicity. They may say the murder happened on a British ship, possibly in British waters, so it’s nothing to do with them. We’ll have to see.’

  They were silent. Then Verity said, ‘Well, I suppose it’s bed for us . . . I mean we’re both pretty whacked . . . and I can see your leg’s hurting.’

  She was still wearing her black tie, though she had shed the jacket. With her short hair and brilliant black eyes, she looked like some adorable boy and Edward wanted nothing more than to kiss her. He propped himself up and said, ‘V, before you go . . . unfinished business? Please . . .’

  ‘Oh God! Do you really want to? Won’t you regret it in the morning?’

  ‘I’ll only regret it if we don’t. Please, Verity . . .’

  She put her hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t plead. I like my men to be masterful. Hey! What are you doing?’

  ‘Viens dans mon lit, viens sur mon coeur.’

  It was awkward undressing with a gammy leg, lying on a bed. In the end, he gave up and so, half-undressed, still wearing his socks, he took Verity in his arms. The bunk wasn’t as big as he remembered and they had to be quiet so as not to wake Benyon in the next-door cabin. Whenever he moved, Edward felt a pain in his knee which made Verity laugh and him swear. But even if it wasn’t quite the display of fireworks it might have been under different circumstances, it was still good enough for him to feel that, in some indefinable way, it was right.

  14

  Verity had slipped back to her cabin before the sun was more than an orange glow on the horizon but she was acutely aware she was not unobserved. Sam ‘happened’ to open his door a crack as she passed and, though she pretended not to see him, she felt his eyes on her back as she closed her door. It was too late, or rather too early, to go to sleep so she showered and then went on deck. As she stared out at the sea, pearl-grey in the dawn, she felt she had crossed the border of a foreign country, even if there was no stamp in her passport to prove it. She was calm now and her head was clear. She must not let her resolve weaken, whatever she had said with the pressure of his arms about her. Marriage would be a disaster for both of them, she was certain of it, but she had initiated an intimacy which, as the marriage service put it so succinctly, for better or for worse would last a lifetime.

  It wasn’t the sex – or rather the sex was just a sign of a deeper intimacy, the product of his having watched over her as she grew from innocent child to become a woman of some experience, all in the space of eighteen months. She felt that their commitment to one another would be the deeper for not being formalized by a conventional wedding ceremony. She tried to imagine herself in a virgin-white dress, veiled to preserve her modesty and attended by a flock of bridesmaids, and she laughed aloud. Without benefit of clergy, they had made a voluntary and equal promise – one to the other. It was not the promise of the wedding vows. Nobody owned anyone – she was not going to be Edward’s property. They were not to make babies together; she would certainly not ‘obey’ him and she was enough of a realist to know that it was possible she might love other men. However, their first loyalty would always be to one another and in loss, disappointment, even despair, they would find in each other a support and strength – gifts which, she knew, many married couples could not or would not grant one another.

  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 . . .?’