Second Sitting

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘You disappoint me, Miss Jones. I was hoping for a more personal suggestion. But I guess you have your work to do and I have mine.’

  I finished my coffee and stood up. ‘Time for forty winks now, Dr Mallory. I’m glad Mrs Foster is all right. Let me know when I can visit her.’

  ‘I’m more interested in when you can visit me.’

  *

  The auction area of the Princess Lounge was full. The gallery staff had arranged their works of art, mostly contemporary prints of mediocre value, on easels for viewing. Quite a selection of tastefully naked ladies and colourful rural scenes. A lot of fishing boats and poinsettias on display. The prints were all very pleasant, but as Mrs Foster had said, they were wallpaper art. Not a Monet among them.

  Tamara Fitzgibbons, the manager, and her assistant, were greeting their customers with flutes of sparkling champagne and tiny canapés, a mere mouthful of something savoury. It was halfway between lunch and supper so there might be a temporary gap to fill.

  The gallery staff were both very glossy: hair, nails, cheeks, lips. They used a ton of gloss a day. It was a wonder they didn’t slip on deck.

  It was a painless way to buy a painting. They bubble-wrapped it for you and shipped it to your home, took care of any tax payable. Many of the passengers would never think of going into an art gallery in normal circumstances. This was something to do. Filling a window of time, as they say these days. And it made them feel that they knew something about art, that they knew the names, recognized a painter’s work. They felt like collectors when in fact they weren’t.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I asked Tamara. She was so institutionalized by cruising that she acted as if she was one of the passengers. Tamara was contracted to be on board for months on end, sailing over endless wastes of water, depths of 5,200 metres as now, simply to sell her firm’s paintings. She barely knew where she was.

  ‘Like a dream,’ she said, flashing a veneered smile. ‘We’ve had so many bids already. And of course the lucky draw attracts a lot of attention.’

  They gave away one painting each auction. Punters collected a ticket as they arrived through the doors. I tried to move on. They gave away the same print every cruise. They had a cupboard full of them, stored at the stern of the ship. I’d seen the door open once or twice, when they had been moving stock around. It was stacked with rack upon rack of paintings, like eggs.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, which meant nothing.

  ‘Would you like some champagne?’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s too early for me. Glad it’s all going well. Let me know if you need anything.’

  ‘Another pair of hands?’ she said archly. As if they did much work the rest of the day. Some people have a strange idea of their capacity for work. Make two sales, do a little dusting and they are exhausted and have to put their feet up with a scented icepack on their eyes.

  I had other work to do. I faxed ahead, making sure Estelle Grayson would be met at Barbados airport by our port agent and driven to the quayside to board the ship. I checked that her cabin was ready. I checked that there would be flowers in the cabin to welcome her. The other entertainers didn’t get the same treatment, no way. But then the other entertainers were not so awkward.

  And she would want a place in the Windsor Dining Room straight away, no slumming it down on deck F in the officers’ mess for her. Well, I knew of a very pleasant table where there was plenty of room.

  I met Richard Norton, the security officer, on his way to the bridge. He looked concerned. I knew better than to try to get information out of him. But he seemed pleased to have someone to offload his worries on to.

  ‘Big trouble?’

  ‘You’ve said it, big trouble.’ He pursed his lips, clamping down on a sigh. ‘It’s all these late films you watch in the cinema.’

  ‘They are an education,’ I agreed, shaking my head. ‘We should censor them. We could so easily be corrupted.’

  ‘How about I come along with you, one evening? Make sure you are watching the right stuff.’ He was looking down at me from his six-foot-three bulk.

  I was thrown. I had this oceanic reputation for being cool. It followed me from ship to ship and no man had a pickaxe handy for the ice. Being an ice maiden suited me. I never wanted any on-board complications. No romancing the officers even though their smart uniforms and tanned legs were enough to send palpitations through the entire female passenger list.

  Richard Norton was nice looking in a cuddly-bear crossed with ex-Marine way. He was big, burly, somewhat overweight, with crisply cut greying hair, cleft chin. I couldn’t see the colour of his eyes. He was too far up to see.

  ‘I’d really like that,’ I heard myself answering. What was I saying? I went to the cinema on my own. I like being on my own. It was my way of chilling out in the darkness, in a cocoon of fantasy. My time with the stars. ‘But don’t expect any holding hands in the romantic bits.’

  ‘As if I would?’ he said grinning, walking away.

  *

  The art auction was going well. I was on the verge of leaving it when Samuel Mallory appeared at my side again. He looked even worse for wear.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘You look awful.’

  ‘I need some sleep,’ he said. He was blinking hard to keep his eyes open.

  ‘So why are you here and not in your cabin?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you that there are medical tests to measure blood and urine levels of cyanide. Tissue levels can also be measured but it rapidly clears from the body. So I took samples of blood and urine and tissue from both of the victims of sudden death. It’s not something I normally do.’ He looked drawn and exhausted. There were shadows under his eyes.

  ‘Cyanide? Do you mean that Mr Foster’s death was from cyanide poisoning? That bright red skin? The cherry-red blood on the tablecloth? For heaven’s sake, how would anyone get cyanide on board ship?’

  ‘It’s used in the fumigation of ships.’

  ‘No way. It isn’t possible,’ I said. ‘It’s the poison of crime novels. Agatha Christie, she wrote one, and there are others.’

  ‘Casey, I’m only telling you this so that you will be careful. They were not normal deaths. I’ve said nothing before because I don’t want there to be a major panic on-board ship. You know how rumours travel. I’m not sure about Reg Hawkins. Could be death from natural causes.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

  Samuel took me aside with a gesture that was almost paternal, although the touch was light and impersonal. We walked down one of the inside decks, past the Bond Street shopping gallery, the Internet Study, the library. He was always taller than me but now he seemed bowed with exhaustion. None of the usual suave charm. He was like any overworked GP in a downtown area.

  I didn’t know where he was taking me. Nor did I care. My afternoon time was running out. Very soon I would be back in my office, checking arrangements, before changing for the evening’s entertainment. He was leaving me short of time as it was.

  ‘Is this important?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is important. If you want to stay alive.’

  This was too melodramatic for words. I shook my head, wishing he would go away and put his head down.

  ‘Have you been along here recently?’ he went on.

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘This is the corridor where they display crew photographs and then on the opposite wall are all the photographs of the entertainment staff.’

  ‘So what? I know that. Rows of photographs. No one looks at them.’

  ‘I think you should look at them now,’ said Samuel.

  The corridor was opposite one of the double flights of stairs, lifts central and cloakrooms at either end, a few sofas and tables for discreet conversation. And as always, beautiful displays of flowers.

  Strangely the temperature seemed to have dropped. Yet it was still early evening and we were nearing the Caribbean. The air was humid outside on deck. Samuel
had his hand lightly on my arm.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘I’m with you.’

  I stood in front of the crew photograph display. Everyone was smiling and smartly uniformed. The names were printed under their photograph. Dr Samuel Mallory was one of them. He looked, as always, incredibly handsome. It was a wonder he wasn’t signed up for the next James Bond.

  The next display was of the entertainment team including the dancers, choreographer, stars, musicians, lighting operator, sound engineer, stage manager. At the top was my photograph, taken quite recently. A studio photograph, poised, in my Conway Blue Line uniform. Dark hair pulled back, the blonde streak visible. A smile, as always, on my lips.

  A chill ran down my spine. I swallowed a gasp. Samuel’s hand tightened on my arm.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said again. ‘Breath deeply.’

  The photograph had been slashed, twice. Two knife cuts, right across my face. They were deep and vicious cuts.

  ‘They don’t hurt a bit,’ I said, my voice trembling.

  Eight - At Sea

  I’m not usually found propping up any bar but Samuel propelled me to the nearest and almost deserted bar, and ordered a double brandy and soda. I was shaking. For once I was not checking the time, nor greeting faces or exchanging smiles. I was taking myself off duty.

  ‘Drink up,’ ordered the doctor.

  My hand was shaking so much he had to help me. The brandy went down my throat like firewater, making me cough.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Mrs Laurent, looking concerned, being wheeled past on one of her circuits. ‘Can I get you some water?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Samuel. ‘Miss Jones will be all right in a moment. She has had a slight shock. I’ll take care of her.’

  ‘Always in the right place at the right time,’ she said, smiling. ‘You are the perfect doctor.’

  ‘Who would do that?’ I choked, wiping my chin with a tissue. ‘And why? Why would they do that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Casey,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s a warning. Perhaps you have been making too many enquiries. Getting too close to something.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything,’ I protested. ‘Just getting on with my everyday job, seeing that all the entertainment runs smoothly. What enquiries? I haven’t made any enquiries. At least, I don’t think I have.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve been seen talking to the wrong people, me or Richard Norton.’

  ‘We were talking about unsuitable films at the cinema,’ I wailed. ‘Hardly photo-slashing material.’

  ‘Maybe they have seen you talking to me. We’ve discussed the recent deaths, several times. Someone may have overheard us. Or maybe it’s a warning to me, to keep off, to mind my own business.’

  ‘But surely they would slash your photograph, if that was the case?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He was deep in thought. A pencil-thin woman in a see-through black and gold caftan waved from across the bar but he didn’t see her. Her smile dropped, annoyed.

  I knew what the slashing could mean. The threat was aimed at me if he didn’t lay off his enquiries. They didn’t know that I meant nothing at all to him. Perhaps they were relying on some aspect of old-fashioned chivalry, thought that we were an item, but I had yet to notice much itemizing going around.

  ‘So what enquiries have you been making?’ I asked, actually enjoying the high alcohol-factor of the brandy now. It was not my normal drink. This one had a definite wow-factor.

  ‘Nothing much. But I took samples of blood and urine and tissue from both of the dead men and did some tests, as I told you. Also hair strands. Medical tests can measure the levels of cyanide but it rapidly clears from the body. I thought I ought to have a few samples, just in case.’

  ‘Cyanide? You really think Mr Foster died from cyanide poisoning?’ This was such a shock. I hope it merited another double brandy. ‘But how could anyone get hold of cyanide these days? It’s not exactly an over-the-counter rat poison. How does it work?’

  ‘From the inside. It blocks the body’s ability to absorb oxygen, that’s why the skin is red and the blood is still red. It’s full of oxygen.’

  ‘But it looks like a heart attack to an outsider?’

  ‘That’s right, gasping, clutching the heart, collapsing. Classic heart-attack symptoms. It’s also used for executions in prisons. They used it in the gas chambers.’

  I shuddered. ‘Perhaps these were mob executions.’

  ‘It’s around in solvents and plastics. A cyanide solution is used in photography and jewellery and the fumigation of ships. They stun fish with it in the Caribbean in the coral reefs. It’s even present in some old nail varnish removers. There’s plenty around if you know where to look for it.’

  ‘So we are looking for a member of the crew with an interest in fishing and photography, who makes jewellery as a hobby?’

  ‘Some sort of mixture like that. Does it fit anyone?’

  ‘And someone who has a key to the photo displays in the lobby. The photos are behind a glass frame and the key is kept in my office. Only my staff know that it is there. No graffiti, or drawing moustaches and cartoon spectacles on photos allowed on this ship.’ Samuel peered at me. It was the first time I had clearly seen his eyes. They were grey, the clearest grey, steel-like, cobalt and silvery. And he had lashes that were positively lethal. They shouldn’t be allowed on a man.

  ‘But what about Reg Hawkins. Surely not the same?’

  ‘I’m not sure about him yet. You’re looking better, Casey. Not so washed out any more. The colour is coming back into your cheeks,’ he said.

  ‘Not cherry-red, I hope?’

  ‘No, thank goodness. I don’t want to see that again on this cruise. You didn’t need to tell me about the blood. It was written on their faces. They both had cherry-red skin. Did you know that they tried to poison the Russian, Rasputin, with cyanide?’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ I said.

  ‘But it didn’t work because they fed it to him in sweet pastries and Madeira wine. Sugar is a natural antidote.’

  ‘I’ll remember to keep taking the sugar,’ I said.

  ‘I think another double brandy would do you more good." said the perfect doctor, waving to the barman. "Have you a photograph to replace that one?’

  ‘How about leaving it in the display case? To show that person that I don’t give a fig? That I’m not scared?’ I wasn’t scared after two double brandies. I could face anyone. Fisticuffs at dawn, on the quoits deck.

  ‘Yes, leave it. If you replace it, the same could happen again. But you could then have a watch placed in the lobby. We could fix up a CCTV camera, catch them in the act.’

  ‘But they might be expecting a camera, hear about it, see it being fixed, that is if they were a member of the crew. Nothing is sacrosanct. Word goes round faster than an epidemic of food poisoning.’

  ‘Don’t mention food poisoning. It is the medical department’s nightmare. Pray for antiseptic sprays that work and everyone washing their hands after going to the loo. It ought to be printed on their tickets.’

  The conversation was slipping. I could see that Dr Mallory was tiring. He’d been tired to start with, but he was now on the verge of nodding off.

  ‘Time for bed, doctor,’ I said firmly. ‘Thank you for looking after me. Go back to your cabin and put your head down on your pillow. You look all in. You need some serious sleep.’

  ‘Are you coming with me?’ he asked, suddenly all sleepy and sexy, but not really meaning it, no energy for physical activity. He was teasing, a sort of last resource of energy dredged up before he collapsed on the bar.

  ‘You go dream about it,’ I said, guiding him towards the lift. I had no idea to which deck he should be heading. I didn’t know then, that he was among the elite, with a cabin on the bridge, near the captain’s quarters. The posh part. ‘No Admittance’ signs on all the stairways that led to the bridge.

  ‘Goodnight, sweet Ophelia,’ he said, saluting me.
r />   ‘No drowning allowed on this ship,’ I said, pushing him into the lift.

  *

  The evening’s programme was somewhat up the creek but no one seemed to notice. There were several hiccups. The shows went on, the quiz, the films. There was music everywhere. The ship was afloat with music. I wondered if I was completely redundant.

  ‘We need you urgently.’ It was Susan on her phone. ‘The DJ hasn’t turned up in the Galaxy Lounge. Everyone is waiting there for the late-night disco dancing to start. Have you got time to do it, Casey?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I know how to turn a turntable.’ I didn’t ask why Susan wasn’t doing it. Maybe she had already gone to bed in her baby-doll PJs with her hair in rollers.

  This confidence was sheer exaggeration. I was hoping there would be some passenger with an ambition to be a DJ who might take pity on me and help out. I rushed to my cabin, threw on a disco-like shimmering purple tunic top and trousers, clipped up my hair, bits sticking out like a hedgehog. I was back in the Galaxy Lounge in less than two minutes. Sheer genius.

  ‘Here we go, folks,’ I said into the loudspeaker, only slightly out of breath. I took a quick look at the record label. ‘“Nutbush City Limits”. We want to see all of you on the floor. Not exactly on the floor, but dancing on the floor. You know what I mean.’

  Good start.

  As the music echoed into the lounge, beat pounding, song raucous, the dancers were on the floor in seconds, gyrating in circles. I really wanted to put my head down and go to sleep. Those brandies on an empty stomach were not helping.

  A stewardess, bless her, came to the DJ’s booth with an enquiring smile. It was late for her, too. ‘Would you like anything, Miss Jones?’

  ‘I really need a long, cold drink,’ I said. ‘And something to eat. Anything will do.’

  ‘No problem,’ she said, with an enigmatic smile, gliding away.

  Sometime later she came back with a glass of orange juice with ice and a plate of tiny, crustless sandwiches, left over from the midnight buffet. ‘Sorry,’ she said, shrugging, ‘all I could do.’