All at Sea

by Liz Hedgecock

  He turned his back, and Maisie got herself into the costume as best she could. Luckily she had chosen a front-fastening dress for Columbine, and the loose costume was easy to put on. ‘I am ready,’ she said.

  The two Pierrots surveyed each other. ‘Good,’ said Inspector Hamilton. ‘Now pin your hair up tight as you can.’ Maisie sat at the dressing table and did so, and he fitted first a skullcap, taking in any strands of hair, then a conical hat. ‘Close your eyes.’

  Maisie did as she was told, doing her best not to screw her face up. Nothing happened, and she had just opened her mouth to ask what he thought he was doing when something warm and slimy slithered across her forehead. ‘Keep them closed,’ he said, and the thing travelled over her face. ‘Hold still a moment longer.’ The thing did something above her eyebrows. ‘You may look now.’

  Maisie started as she was confronted by a dead-white face, featureless but for her brown eyes and a pair of arched black eyebrows. ‘I hope you’ll do a better job on yourself,’ was all she said. Inwardly she thought, I’m glad I’m unrecognisable, and I shall never tell anyone of this.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said the inspector, straightening up. ‘You have not left me much time. Off you go, and don’t forget, stick close to your usual companions.’

  Maisie got up, watching herself in the mirror all the while. ‘Is there a particular reason why you want me to concentrate on the people at the captain’s table?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said the inspector. ‘Firstly, you know them best. Secondly, having interviewed the stewards on duty in the area and spoken again to the Smythes, it has become clear that only the people on Mr Smythe’s corridor — and, therefore, on the captain’s table — would have had a chance to enter it during the period of time when the document disappeared.’

  Maisie’s mouth dropped open. ‘So it’s one of us?’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said the inspector. ‘Make sure you don’t touch your face, or you will present a comical spectacle indeed.’

  Maisie re-entered the dining room, or ballroom as it now was, with mixed feelings. Things had been much more comfortable when there was a possibility that the thief was someone she had probably never spoken to. Now that it was one of the people whom she saw every day at the captain’s table, things had taken on a rather different complexion. Like myself, she thought, restraining herself from touching her cheek just in time.

  At first she felt put out that no one of her acquaintance saluted her. Then the eager young man asked her for a dance, and for a moment Maisie thought she had been discovered; but his perpetual laughing address of her as ‘little Pierrot’, and his wrong guesses as to who she might be, reassured her. I am not sure I would like to dance with Mr Randall. He might guess me, but I don’t think the others would know.

  After her dance with the eager young man Maisie made her way to a vacant chair close to where the Jenningses were sitting. She smiled but they did not respond, and Maisie reflected that given her almost complete lack of facial features, they had probably not even noticed.

  ‘I shall be glad to put this voyage behind us,’ said Mrs Jennings decisively. ‘It has been nothing but trouble from start to finish.’

  ‘Oh, but mother —’ said Miss Jennings.

  ‘It has, and you know it,’ replied her mother. ‘All the worry that it has caused me — probably for nothing. If I were not hoping for better things in Bombay I would suggest that we return to England on the next boat.’

  Miss Jennings opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

  ‘Pierrot!’ a gruff voice cried, and a bright masked Harlequin bowed to Maisie. ‘May I have this dance? I am bored with Columbines.’

  Maisie laughed. It was just the sort of thing Mr Randall would say. But she could see that this was not he. There was no moustache beneath the mask, for one thing, and the figure was, while tall, more slender. ‘I do not care to dance —’

  ‘Of course you do!’ The Harlequin seized Maisie’s hand and pulled her onto her feet, and she was galloped into the dance before she could beg for mercy. It was all that she could do to keep up with him, especially after her earlier efforts. At length the dance came to an end. The Harlequin bowed again, put Maisie’s arm through his, and led her to her seat. ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ gasped Maisie.

  Two minutes later he was back with a glass of something pink. ‘Grapefruit lemonade,’ he said, ‘very refreshing.’ He raised his own glass. ‘Chin chin.’ He clinked her glass and then drank half of his in one go. ‘Down the hatch!’

  Maisie sipped carefully, trying not to endanger her make-up, and found it, as he had said, refreshing. Soon she had drunk most of it. ‘Another dance?’ asked the Harlequin.

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ said Maisie. ‘I shall sit quietly for a while.’

  ‘Then I shall seek a new partner!’ cried the Harlequin, and dashed away.

  Maisie considered asking Miss Jennings to dance, but after her frosty reception earlier she suspected the request would not be welcome. Instead she watched the dancers, looking for anyone she knew. In particular she looked out for the inspector. Who would he have chosen to be? She thought he might be a Harlequin, or perhaps an elderly Pantaloon. Yet she could not see anyone who danced like the inspector. She blinked once, twice —

  Good heavens, I was almost asleep! Maisie sat bolt upright. Is that Mr Randall and Mr Merritt sitting across the room? She leaned forward to get a better view, but her chair seemed to fly from under her, and Maisie found herself on the floor.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at a knot of people, most regarding her with distaste.

  ‘Has he fainted?’ asked another Pierrot.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Guy,’ snapped a Columbine. ‘That’s a woman, and from the look of her I suspect she has had too much to drink.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Maisie tried to say, but she couldn’t get her mouth to move in the usual way.

  ‘I told you,’ said the Columbine smugly. ‘Someone had better call a steward and get her removed.’

  ‘But where to?’ asked the Pierrot. ‘Does anyone know who she is?’

  The room swung like a lamp in gimbals, and Maisie hastily closed her eyes in case she was sick.

  ‘What’s all this?’ a voice roared.

  Maisie opened one eye fearfully, expecting to see the captain. But it was worse. Above her loomed a Clown, his face a hideous mask of red and white paint with thick black eyebrows, and topped by a bright red wig. He wore a gaudy costume through which his belly protruded. He leaned down and she shrank from him. ‘What’s happened?’ he shouted.

  ‘The more charitable people think that this — lady — has fainted,’ sneered Columbine.

  ‘Fainted, eh?’ boomed the Clown. ‘I’d better take her to the sickbay before she gets trampled! Stand clear, everyone!’ He seized Maisie’s hands, and flung her over his shoulder.

  ‘That’s the way to do it!’ laughed the other Pierrot. ‘We’ll have no fainters here!’

  ‘No, we shan’t!’ bellowed the Clown. ‘I am the Lord of Misrule, and I do not tolerate weakness! Clear a path!’ And Maisie felt herself bobbing up and down as he strode away. She kept her eyes closed tight; she did not want to see the laughing faces. He will take me to the sick bay, won’t he? Once she heard the door close Maisie tried to see where they were going, but a particularly bad lurch led to a wave of blackness.

  ***

  When Maisie came to she was lying on her back in a bed which felt like hers. ‘Where am I?’ she murmured. The room was pitch black.

  ‘In your room,’ said a man’s voice. ‘And a very bad state. Close your eyes, please.’

  It seemed easier to comply, and Maisie felt a wet cloth wiping her face. Occasionally a light came near, and a voice muttered ‘Bloody stuff,’ but at last it stopped.

  ‘What happened?’ murmured Maisie.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the voice, ‘but I shall find out. Now I’m going t
o lift your arms, and put your nightdress over your costume.’ One arm, then the other, floated up of its own accord, and sleeves were put on them. Then her head was raised carefully, and the garment worked over it. ‘I would unpin your hair, but it looks complicated,’ the voice said. ‘Try to sleep.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ whispered Maisie. ‘I’m scared.’

  A hand took hers. ‘I shall sit with you until you go to sleep, and then fetch your maid. I shall make sure you are not left alone, Maisie.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Maisie. The room was too dark to see anything. A masked ball swam into her head, and jumbled images of a dance. She knew the voice from somewhere. ‘Archie…?’

  ‘Try to sleep,’ the voice repeated, and his hand squeezed hers gently.

  Maisie tried to battle sleep, but it was no use; she felt weak as a kitten, and all sensations left her except for the warm, gentle grip of that hand. She clung to it as if it were a spar of wood on a huge ocean, and drifted with it towards she knew not where.

  Chapter 14

  When Maisie came to consciousness she could see light through her eyelids. She opened an eye cautiously.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Frobisher,’ said Ruth, rather frostily.

  ‘Good afternoon?’ Maisie struggled into a sitting position, which was more difficult than usual as her arms did not want to support her. Her room looked the same as usual — the iron bedstead, the compact chest of drawers, the folding washstand — and yet she felt as if it were strange to her. Or is it I that am different?

  ‘Yes, good afternoon,’ said Ruth briskly. ‘It is now half past four.’

  ‘But how… I’m very warm,’ said Maisie. She looked down at herself. ‘Why am I wearing —’

  ‘You tell me, Miss Maisie,’ said Ruth. ‘The doctor expected me to explain it.’

  The truth crashed in on Maisie like a battering ram. The dance, and the fall, and that horrible clown — She closed her eyes.

  ‘I didn’t spend all that time patching a dress for you to go and wear something else,’ said Ruth.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Maisie. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t explain.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to,’ said Ruth. ‘But I don’t expect to be pulled out of my bed in the middle of the night by a steward telling me a clown told him you’re ill.’

  ‘That wasn’t a clown, that was — well, I don’t know who it was,’ Maisie concluded weakly.

  ‘I don’t care who it was,’ said Ruth. ‘And I don’t know what you were doing. But I do know that I want it to stop. What would your mother say?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Maisie. A sudden, horrible thought struck her. ‘None of the other passengers know, do they?’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘How would I know? I wasn’t there.’ Her mouth twisted with something like amusement. ‘Maybe you’d better go and find your clown and ask him.’ Her expression softened. ‘The doctor said he wouldn’t tell anybody. When I got to him he was dressing. He said someone had knocked and put a note under his door.’

  Maisie blinked. Then she put a hand to her cheek, which came away clean. ‘Could I have a mirror, please, Ruth?’ she asked timidly.

  ‘You may,’ said Ruth, bringing her a hand mirror. ‘Although I’m not sure you want to see yourself. Chalk-white, you are.’

  Maisie’s heart leapt into her mouth; but the mirror confirmed that, while pale, at least she was not painted. ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Oh, him.’ Ruth sniffed. ‘He said he thought you’d taken a sleeping draught — something like chloral — and it hadn’t agreed with you. I said that made no sense, because you don’t take a sleeping draught. Or I’ve never known you take one.’ She looked at Maisie with suspicion.

  The lemonade! ‘No,’ said Maisie, her brain whirring. ‘I must get up; it is time for afternoon tea.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ said Ruth. ‘All of first class are on an excursion in Aden.’

  ‘So that’s why the boat feels odd!’ exclaimed Maisie. She had not realised until now that they were not moving. The constant motion of the ship had become so natural to her that she missed it.

  ‘Yes, and they won’t be back till six. One of the stewards came to tell me.’

  Maisie took this in. ‘Oh Ruth, have you been with me all this time? Since the steward called you?’

  ‘I have,’ said Ruth. Then she smiled at Maisie. ‘Where else would I be?’ She crossed to the bed and stroked Maisie’s hair. ‘You were in such a state when I came, tossing and turning and talking in your sleep. I didn’t know what to make of it. I tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t wake up. That’s when I called the doctor.’ She paused. ‘Why is your hair pinned up like that?’

  ‘I did it myself,’ admitted Maisie.

  ‘Yes, Miss Maisie, I can see that,’ said Ruth. ‘But why? Why didn’t you ask me to help?’

  Maisie looked at Ruth’s honest, hurt face, and tried to think of something that would placate her. The truth probably would — but she could not tell the truth. ‘Just a childish whim, I suppose,’ she said, in lieu of anything better.

  Ruth sighed. ‘The doctor says that you must rest at least until dinner. If you feel like it, you could get up for that.’

  ‘Has anyone enquired after me?’ Maisie asked.

  Ruth shook her head. ‘Not a soul. I imagine they’ve all been far too busy getting over the dance themselves, and getting ready for their trip.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Maisie. Suddenly she wanted to cry. ‘The doctor is right, Ruth,’ she said quickly, ‘I ought to rest. And so should you. Why don’t you go and take a nap, and if you are awake at half past six, come to me then.’

  ‘Very well.’ Ruth gave her hand a pat, and softly withdrew.

  Maisie tried to make sense of a jumble of thoughts running through her mind. Who was the Harlequin? Had he known that something was wrong with the drink? He must have, surely; he urged me to drink up. Had the Clown been in league with him? Who looked after me, and held my hand? She remembered a voice, and a warm, gentle grasp. Where had the inspector been in all of this? Who had he been? She closed her eyes. Things were a little clearer, but not much. Perhaps sleep really would help.

  ***

  Maisie was woken by a quiet but persistent knocking at the door. She swung her legs to the floor and stood, then instantly regretted it. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said, and made her way slowly to the door, holding on to everything she could along the way. ‘Who is it?’ she murmured.

  ‘Hamilton. Is anyone with you?’

  ‘No,’ said Maisie. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just past six. May I come in?’

  Maisie considered. Do I want to see him? ‘Do you think that’s a good idea, Mr Hamilton?’

  ‘I dragged a whole excursion back early so that I could come and see how you are,’ he snapped.

  ‘Oh,’ said Maisie. She wrapped her bed-jacket tightly round her, and opened the door.

  Inspector Hamilton walked in and Maisie closed the door behind him. ‘You look a lot brighter than the last time I saw you,’ he said.

  ‘Well yes, I was painted as a Pierrot —’

  ‘Not that.’ He studied her. ‘The doctor said that you had taken a sleeping draught.’

  ‘A Harlequin brought me a drink,’ said Maisie. ‘Grapefruit lemonade. He drank some himself.’

  ‘From the same glass?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘No,’ said Maisie. ‘He had dragged me round the dance floor, and I was thirsty, and I never thought —’ She shrugged and her shoulders drooped. ‘I never thought I would be spotted so quickly.’

  ‘I blame myself,’ said the inspector. ‘I am so sorry, M — Miss Frobisher.’

  Something in his grave, quiet tone started Maisie’s memory. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? In my room. You took my make-up off, and held my hand —’

  ‘You could hardly be left like that, could you?’ He sounded almost angry. ‘I might as well have taken out an advertisement on the promenade deck as to what you had be
en doing.’

  ‘People would just have thought it was a silly prank,’ said Maisie. ‘I would never have said a word.’

  ‘Can you remember how much of the drink you had?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Perhaps two-thirds of the glass,’ said Maisie.

  The inspector was silent, thinking. ‘I suspect if Harlequin had had his way, you would never have said another word.’ He sighed. ‘Again, Miss Frobisher, I apologise. I never expected anything so serious to come of our experiment.’ He looked at Maisie. ‘Can you remember anything about the Harlequin?’

  ‘I didn’t recognise him, if that’s what you mean. I remember thinking that it was not Mr Randall, because he was too slim. He was tall, and I think young, by the way he moved, and he had a gruff voice.’

  ‘That’s an odd mixture,’ said the inspector, frowning. ‘Did he have a beard or moustache?’

  ‘No,’ said Maisie.

  ‘That rules a few people out.’ The inspector looked at her keenly. ‘I wonder how he knew you.’

  ‘Do you think the Harlequin was in league with the Clown?’ asked Maisie. She shuddered at the thought of that grinning mask of paint looming over her, his hands seizing her and bearing her away…

  ‘I think the Clown was trying to help,’ said the inspector. ‘At least you were not unmasked at the scene.’

  ‘True,’ said Maisie. ‘Although it would probably have been just one more silly exploit to add to my list of public scandals.’

  The inspector raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t you read the gossip columns, Mr Hamilton? They are inordinately interested in my doings, and if they cannot find anything, they make it up.’ She saw his expression, and added hastily, ‘But I am not as black as I am painted, you know.’

  ‘Or, perhaps, as white.’ A brief smile. ‘I had better go before your maid comes to dress you for dinner. I assume you’ll be at dinner?’