A Wide Berth

by Stella Whitelaw

  *

  It was the steepest staircase to climb to the captain’s quarters and the bridge. It was like a carpeted ladder with wider treads. I might be able to go up, but I would never be able to come down, unless backwards. Although the prospect of being marooned on the bridge with the captain for the night was heartening.

  Mr Nasty had not been pleased to hear of my summons by the top man. I had dropped Peter-pecker as being an insult to decent trees and birds.

  ‘What on earth can he want to talk to you for?’ he said, as if I was some sort of frog that had hopped on board.

  ‘It’s something to do with carbon dioxide and saving the world from extinction,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ve discussed it many times. He wants my ideas.’

  ‘You don’t have any ideas.’

  If anyone was going to be murdered on this cruise, it was going to be Pierre Arbour. I wondered how I could do it without being found out. He needed to suffer. To know that he was paying for all the cruel remarks he had made in the past, not only to me, but many other hapless recruits, including Debbie. Perhaps I could slip arsenic into his morning coffee? Did they sell it in the ship’s shop? Perhaps I could persuade Dr Skinner to slip me a small dose. Arsenic trioxide resembles sugar, is almost tasteless and has been the most classic of poisons since Roman times.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, flashing a smile. ‘I won’t drop you in it. Your secrets are safe with me.’

  It was a ridiculous remark, but Pierre did not know what to make of it. He immediately poured himself a coffee and drank it.

  ‘Don’t take long. There is work to do.’

  I knew my way to the bridge. There was a sign at the top of the staircase. SCARY STAIRS — AT YOUR OWN RISK. But Captain Luke Wellington was at the top, holding out his hand to steady me up the last rung. He was smiling.

  ‘Frightening, aren’t they? Sorry about that. I’ve ordered tea, or would you like something stronger?’

  ‘Tea would be perfect. I have to work this evening.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long. Come and sit down.’

  His quarters next to the bridge were severely masculine. Not a flower in sight. The cabin had two leather three-seater sofas facing a long polished coffee table. The walls were lined with books and nautical pictures. Light filtered through portholes. There was a massive desk in one corner and a massive television in the other. Two inside doors led to his sleeping quarters and perhaps a bathroom. I was never going to find out, alas. He was married to his job.

  A stewardess appeared with a tray of tea. I poured it into two cups. No biscuits and no cake. I handed him a cup of tea. He could put in his own sugar.

  Captain Luke Wellington got straight to the point.

  ‘I understand from the shore grapevine that you are quite good at solving mysteries,’ he said. ‘It was flags and hand signals,’ he explained with a smile.

  ‘Guesswork and good luck,’ I said, forever modest.

  ‘I want you to find Tracy Coleman,’ he said. ‘She didn’t get off at Acapulco, unless she jumped. Her swipe card was not used. She must still be on board. This ship is like a floating prison. There’s no way of getting away unobserved. There are cameras everywhere.’

  ‘A luxurious prison,’ I said. ‘All mod cons.’

  ‘Hardly luxurious, if you are stuffed into a hold several decks down. She’s here, somewhere. I want you to find her. No, I’ll put it stronger than that. You must find her.’ He hadn’t touched his tea. The atmosphere was charged with his firmness of purpose.

  ‘It isn’t easy. Pierre Arbour is on my back, not literally, but most of the time. He’s probably counting the minutes that I am up here with you. He seems to have an inbuilt aversion to female staff.’

  ‘Have you ever thought it might be insecurity? You are very efficient.’

  ‘And maybe I’m half an inch taller.’

  ‘I’m going to give you special access to all areas of the ship. A signed permit from me allowing you to go anywhere. I don’t know, at the moment, what else I can do. I can hardly tell Monsieur Arbour to release you from all duties. It would look suspicious. You know, interdepartmental collusion?’

  For a moment, his eyes twinkled. I liked the way they twinkled, shot with stars that were a million years away. I had to hold on to my cup, because my hand weakened. Captain Luke Wellington was ordinary good-looking, but there was something so likeable about him. Good looks are not everything. At first, they are important, stunning, below the belt. But later, it’s the person within that matters. ‘A permit would be wonderful,’ I managed to say. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘And if there is anything else …?’

  ‘I’ll let you know. Is email all right?’

  ‘Yes. Quicker than the phone sometimes. Now, I have to go. Steer the ship somewhere. Where are we going? Ah, Fuerte Amador. Bad weather ahead, apparently, force six to seven. Hold on to your hat.’

  ‘And so do I, have to be somewhere, that is. Thank you for the tea, sir.’

  ‘Call me Luke.

  ‘Call me Casey.’

  I walked on air.

  He showed me to a private lift. It took me all the way down to the Zanzibar Dining Room. At least I knew where I was now. I was back in the entertainment office in less time than it takes to tell.

  *

  When I got back, Pierre was doubled up over his desk, his face white.

  ‘I’m ill, Casey,’ he groaned. ‘I’ve got the runs. Something I ate. Seafood last night, maybe. I had rather a lot. You’ll have to do the spectacular this evening. Don’t mess it up. I’m relying on you.’

  ‘You need the doctor,’ I said quickly. He really did look quite ill. ‘Or a nurse. Let’s get you back to your cabin.’

  ‘But the spectacular?’ he groaned again.

  ‘Don’t worry, I can do it. You go to bed and sweat it out. It’s only another show.’

  ‘Do what you like,’ he croaked. ‘I’ll sort out your mistakes when I’m better.’ Charming.

  ‘You take care,’ I said, slipping instantly in to motherly-nurse mode. My mother would have given him a double dose of Syrup of Figs. ‘Drink lots and lots of liquid. You mustn’t get dehydrated.’

  His answer was an incoherent mumble. The melodious tone of the voice beautiful was on hold.

  *

  Yes, it was only another show. But I knew how to present it, twice in one evening. I wore my beautiful layered Versace dress, one of my top favourites. It was several layers of voile, from dark rose to the palest sweet-pea pink. The overlapping layers flowed round my ankles like foam. I’d been saving it for an occasion, and this was just such an occasion.

  Everyone had had a lovely day in Costa Rica. I loved the country; it had captured my heart. Captain Wellington had faith in me and was giving me a permit to move anywhere round the ship.

  The audience in the Acropolis Theatre was glad to see a different face, with bare arms and shoulders. Pierre never bared his shoulders, except maybe round the pool. Though, to be honest, I had never seen him round the pool. Perhaps he had moles or warts.

  It was a spectacular spectacular. A West End singing star, a talent-winning dance troupe, acrobats from Russia on the way up. Pop stars on the way down. I gave them all the biggest build-up. So easy to introduce artists that were brilliant. Mediocre shows were the devil.

  Male passengers were pleased to see lots of female flesh and a smile that could sink a thousand ships. If Helen of Troy could do it, so could I. Cheers and wolf whistles followed my stage exit. Everyone was in a good mood, ready to enjoy themselves. Several of the artists thanked me for my complimentary build-up.

  ‘We’d better be good after that introduction.’

  It was a truly memorable evening. People stood and clapped and it was not because of me. I was only a floating female figure in pink voile who wafted on and off stage, saying all the right things. It was the memory and the future fused together. They wanted the good life to continue.

  I was in the Boulevard Café boostin
g my energy levels with a quick salmon sandwich and a coffee before the end of the second show, when Edmund Morgan hurriedly approached my table.

  ‘Sorry, Casey,’ he said. ‘A disaster. Something dreadful has happened.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, halfway through a mouthful. ‘Am I involved?’

  ‘Not really. Someone poured cleaning spirit into the cabin of Pierre Arbour while he was asleep. Toxic fumes, etc. He’s in intensive care.’

  I was involved, deeply. But I had an alibi. Several hundred people had seen me on stage, twice, and talking and waiting backstage during the show. They couldn’t blame it on me.

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘He’ll survive. Luckily, Helen, the nurse from the medical centre, had called in and was able to move him to a private room.’

  ‘This is really awful, but can I talk to you later? We are all madly busy, being one short.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll catch up with you later.’

  It was so peaceful without Pierre, but I was the tiniest bit sorry about the cleaning fluid. Was it a message or a warning from someone? We were busy, but I enjoyed rushing round at my own pace. Gary and Debbie had found renewed enthusiasm now that the yoke had been lifted and took on the extra work without a grumble. They knew I was doing more than my fair share.

  ‘Thank you, Casey, for giving me an easier time,’ Debbie said. She was on her way to the quiz. At least she could sit at the table and read the questions. ‘Really appreciate it.’

  ‘I looked at the schedules, and Pierre has been giving you a load of work since the ship left Southampton, while he did hardly anything. But all that is going to change now if he is out of action.’

  I was trying to make sure that Debbie did not do too much. She was still pale and seemed to sit down a lot. Once I saw her leaning against a wall, catching her breath. It was not natural in a young woman. She was in her mid-twenties. Then the penny dropped. With a clang.

  She ought to see Dr Skinner. Now.

  8. At Sea and Fuerte Amador

  ‘Debbie,’ I said, taking her aside to a quiet spot. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t make that time at the theatre.’ She wouldn’t look at me, instead staring at the carpet. ‘You can tell me to clear off and mind my own business, but why don’t you go and see Dr Skinner now? You seem very much under the weather, despite the temperature outside, and I’m really concerned about you.’

  Her reaction was unexpected. She staggered to sit down on a nearby chair and burst in to tears. She sat, clutching her stomach, her face an unhealthy pallor.

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  She nodded like a rag doll.

  ‘Are you bleeding? You have to tell me. I can help you.’

  ‘A l-lot.’

  ‘Is it what I think? Come on, we are both grown-ups.’

  She nodded, still sobbing.

  ‘You must go and see the doctor now. I insist. No arguing, Debbie, please. I’ll cover for you. I’ll have time to do the quiz. It can start a bit later.’

  Debbie did not need to be told twice. She looked relieved that her condition had been recognized by a sympathetic woman. It was not the first miscarriage I had seen. My years at ballet school had been educational in more ways than learning how to dance sur les pointes.

  ‘I feel awful,’ she said, wiping her tears with a tissue. ‘So low and so weak. Please don’t think it was my fault, that I did anything. I wanted that baby. But now I think something went wrong. I was afraid to go to the doctor in case she thought I had done something to myself and I got sent home. I need this job. I love it and I want to make it a career. I want to be successful like you, Casey.’

  Successful like me? Was I successful? Tell me about it when you’ve got a few hours or a week.

  ‘I won’t say a word to Head Office if you go straight to the doctor now. I’ll also speak to Dr Skinner and ask her not to report your condition. You should be back on your feet in a couple of days, perhaps even sooner, feeling much better. Does the father know about the baby?’

  Debbie looked wistful. ‘He doesn’t know. He wouldn’t want to know.’

  Married? It was not my place to probe.

  *

  After the shows, I made a lightning-quick change into black trousers and silky top for the quiz. I wondered how the cheating table would take my reappearance. Edmund had not spoken to them. Maybe they would realize that they had been rumbled.

  The corner group was one member short; the tiny woman with the Bluetooth aid in her ear had not arrived. Perhaps she was ashamed. It could happen.

  We were halfway through the quiz. ‘What was the name of the dance group which won the Best of Britain talent show in May 2009?’ I asked.

  Edmund appeared in the doorway of the lounge. He looked worse than ever, hair falling over his eyes, bewildered, disorientated, like little boy lost. He came over to my table. The man was a mess.

  ‘Can I speak to you?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘Sure. We are just about to take five. Take five, everyone! Time to renew your drinks. What is it, Edmund? You look worried.’

  ‘One of the passengers, a woman, is dead. I think she’s committed suicide in her cabin,’ he gulped. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘How dreadful. That’s really bad news. Call Dr Skinner first, captain second, purser third to inform next of kin. Get going, Edmund. Was she travelling with anyone?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is it a double cabin?’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’

  He was one hopeless security officer. I could run rings round him. ‘Come along, let’s find out,’ I said, leaving the quiz players to gather at the bar for refills. ‘Start phoning as we walk. Are you sure the woman is dead?’

  Edmund nodded. ‘She looks dead. She’s been dead a while, I think. Not exactly cold or stiff, but quite dead.’

  What did quite dead mean? It was not a medical term that I was familiar with. However, I would see for myself very soon.

  It was cabin 102 on A deck. An inside double cabin, spacious but no view. It was halfway between a standard and a stateroom. There were a lot of extras. A crew member was standing outside, obviously to stop any steward from going in. This passenger wouldn’t be needing any clean towels. Edmund opened the door.

  ‘Are you sure you want to go in?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘But remember, don’t touch anything.’

  The cabin was empty, both single beds turned down, chocolates on pillows. Sweet dreams, etc. Long dreams this time.

  The woman had hanged herself with the cord from her complimentary bathrobe. The shower rail had taken her weight. She was built like a bird. Her stocking toes barely touched the edge of the bath. There was a glimpse of crimson varnish on her toenails. I knew immediately who it was.

  It was the missing woman from the quiz team, the one with the Bluetooth in her ear. It was a shock to see her hanging like this. Mrs Lorna Fletcher. For a moment, I felt responsible. But I had not said anything officially. No one had accused her of cheating.

  There must be some other reason for this desperate act. No one kills themselves over a crooked quiz game. You might go into hiding, wear sack cloth and ashes, give up chocolate for Lent, but never hang yourself.

  Her face was not a pretty sight. Constriction of the throat does horrid things to the tissue of the face, the eyeballs and the mouth. Her face was congested with a blue tinge; the eyes were bulging. There was froth and blood staining around the nose and mouth, her tongue protruding.

  She had been wearing semi-formal for the first dinner sitting. A long, black skirt with a white pleated blouse. Her necklace had broken and the beads were strewn all over the bathroom floor. Also on the floor was a pair of silver sandals, kicked off.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet. Can’t get hold of the purser.’

  ‘This is the woman who was cheating at the quiz. Her name is Mrs Lorna Fletcher. Mr Fletcher is doing the quiz. Perhaps we ought to se
nd for him.’

  Edmund was on his mobile again. It was his safety net. His barrier against the world. He’d phone anyone, rather than talk face to face.

  ‘Don’t you think it would be polite and more official if you fetched Mr Fletcher from the lounge yourself? There’s nothing for you to do here. You could break the news gently to him, away from his friends. It would be better than sending an officer,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Edmund. He flashed me a smile. ‘Thank you, Casey. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  It also gave me a few moments alone with the dead woman. Reducing or cutting off the oxygen supply to the lungs is known as asphyxia, and that seemed to be the cause of Mrs Fletcher’s death. It’s not an easy death. It can take as long as five minutes. The natural reaction is to struggle for breath. There’s the slowing down of the heart. But sometimes the heart stops before the asphyxiation is complete.

  The horizontal mark of the ligature was visible under her neck, but it sloped upwards towards the shower rail. It had only been a short drop, but then it has been proved that simply jerking the head back can fracture or dislocate the vertebrae near the brain and cause instantaneous death.

  Those broken beads said something, but I did not know what. I looked at her nails. They were broken. Had she struggled, or did she bite her nails? The kicked-off silver slippers … on purpose or in desperation? I was not yet convinced that this was a suicide. There was no note anywhere. Suicides usually leave a note.

  My acute hearing picked up footsteps coming along the corridor, and I stood back from the corpse. She was still slightly swinging with the ship’s movement. Mr Fletcher was in for a shock.

  He nearly passed out. We had to get him to a chair, pour him a glass of water. Fortunately, Dr Skinner arrived at the same moment, and she was able to administer to both the living and the dead. Minutes later, Captain Luke Wellington arrived on the scene and was a stabilizing factor. He knew exactly what to do. He didn’t run a big ship for nothing. Countess Aveline was a big ocean-going liner and people died. We were like a big village. Death happened.

  The captain caught sight of me in the background and nodded recognition but no more. It was not appropriate. He took in the scene wordlessly, not missing anything. Then he looked at me and his eyes had an urgent message. He seemed to be telling me to look into this death, too.