Second Sitting

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘And I thought someone was watching me. I had this awful feeling.’ I shuddered, recalling the uncanny sense of eyes. ‘Someone was there. Even though I was half asleep and feeling all woozy, I knew I was being watched.’

  ‘Fortunately Norton found you. So all is well.’

  ‘Don’t you understand now why I am so suspicious about the second-sitting deaths? They are not normal. It’s not a coincidence,’ I said, keeping my voice down. We were surrounded and hemmed in by hot and untidy passengers who were knee-high with shopping. I didn’t want to start any rumours.

  ‘We’ll see when we get back to Southampton,’ said Samuel complacently, waving to a middle-aged, glossy, tanned woman sitting further along the bus. One of his on-ship admirers. She wore big tortoiseshell sunglasses on top of her blonde hair, which looked so pretentious, so tacky. ‘It’ll all be sorted out then.’

  ‘It might be too late,’ I said.

  He squeezed my hand. ‘But at least you’re all right now. The show must go on and all that jazz.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said, removing my hand. ‘Estelle Grayson arrived today. The soprano from Hades. By now Captain Nicolas will be in receipt of her numerous complaints. He will, no doubt, have to invite her to cocktails in his cabin before she can possibly go on.’

  Samuel chuckled. ‘You stay very cool and calm. I like that. I don’t like women who panic.’

  ‘I can do panic,’ I said.

  The shuttle bus was groaning with its extra load, easing out of the square, negotiating traffic. Bridgetown’s shopkeepers were waving to us. They were so friendly. Perhaps the passengers had spent an awful lot of money. I hoped so. I hadn’t spent anything, not even a penny. Skinflint.

  ‘So the divine diva is throwing her weight about, is she?’ Samuel went on, his eyes on the scenery. He seemed to take a real interest in new places. His dark hair was dented smooth where he had been wearing a straw trilby and his clothes were creased. It was the first time I had ever seen him looking crumpled.

  ‘And it’s some weight. Didn’t you hear the ship creak as she stepped aboard? She thinks she’s on stage all the time. Life is one endless theatre. Don’t stop applauding.’

  ‘And have you found her a place in the Windsor Dining Room? I’m sure she won’t want to eat in the officers’ mess, down among the luggage and the stores.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve found her a table,’ I said. I could barely conceal my smile. ‘Can you guess where?’

  ‘Table two?’

  I nodded. ‘Second sitting. She’ll love it. Won’t she?’

  Ten - At Sea

  It was a miracle that everyone was eventually aboard before sailing time. I patrolled the decks, listening to the listed announcements of passengers unaccounted for by the computer. It was pretty scary. But the plastic cruise cards were not infallible. Sometimes they didn’t register on the scanner. A blip, a speck of dust, a drop of sweat could render a card magically non-existent.

  They were casting off the lines that held the ship to the dock-side. The heavy ropes splashed into the water and were winched aboard. A few people waved from the shore, but not many. Cruise ships were two a penny in Barbados. A pilot was guiding the Countess between all the shipping and a tug was needed to swing her stern to port. She set course to pass through the breakwaters.

  Some of the smaller craft, especially holiday yachts, came far too close, just to have a look at such a beautiful ship. Or perhaps they wanted us to look at them. They did own their boats. Or most of them did.

  I took a last farewell of the coral island and went downstairs to my office. I knew there would be plenty of work waiting there, then hopefully a freshly caught red snapper on the supper menu tonight.

  ‘Miss Jones? Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ The voice was in full throttle.

  It was Estelle Grayson. She was robed in a multi-coloured silk tent, hair piled beehive style spiked with huge sunglasses, make-up flawless, face set into a list of complaints.

  ‘Hello, Miss Grayson,’ I said, putting on a smile that didn’t quite stretch to my eyes. But I was too happy to care much. Samuel had been amusing company on the bus journey and I was still floating on the fun of it all. He had charm in a bucket load.

  ‘Where were you when I needed you?’ she demanded.

  ‘What did you need me for?’ I asked. Rule 99: always respond with another question. A useful ruse in difficult situations. The politicians do it all the time.

  ‘The pianist is hopeless. He doesn’t play the right tempo. He can’t transpose keys. I cannot work with him. I refuse to work with him.’

  ‘So, shall I go give him some lessons?’ I said. I hoped it sounded like a joke. I really didn’t care. I knew that such a cavalier attitude could lose me my job, but this woman was hopelessly difficult. The ship wouldn’t sink without her. The cruise wouldn’t falter mid Atlantic, winch down the lifeboats and abandon ship. Maybe a few passengers would complain … so give them a rebate.

  ‘You are not due for a first billing night spot until tomorrow evening,’ I went on. ‘There is plenty of time for us to meet and discuss the show. I know that your repertoire requires the support of a pianist. We have several aboard, all excellent pianists. If you can’t work with any of them, then we will arrange to fly you home from the next available airport. No problem, Miss Grayson.’

  It was an ultimatum. And the sooner, the better. She could take it how she pleased. I had several entertainers who’d be happy to have an extra spot. The passengers would barely notice a change of name. Who looked at the photographs in the frame anyway?

  ‘I’m not standing for this,’ she said, going rather pink.

  ‘Then perhaps you’d better sit down. Think about it. After all, you are a professional.’

  She looked shocked. No one had ever stood up to her outrageous demands before. She had always got her own way. I let her recover, poured out a glass of water and set it on the desk.

  Estelle composed her face before answering. She was going through the options.

  ‘He’s just not what I expected,’ she floundered.

  ‘Perhaps you are not what he expected either,’ I said.

  She swallowed this. Obviously no other cruise directors had ever spoken to her so openly. It was not easy. If she broke her contract and went home, then I would have to answer for the consequences to Head Office. But if the pianist, who played the ivories for hours and hours in different venues, the lobbies, the bars, the stage, also threw a wobbly, he would have to be replaced. Passengers liked their live music.

  I know which one I would prefer to listen to. We didn’t use wallpaper music on-board.

  ‘Perhaps he’s not used to your high standard of production,’ I said, pouring on some oil. ‘Some of your songs are very difficult.’

  ‘Perhaps we could go over the numbers again,’ she said between her teeth. She didn’t want to lose her fee. If she objected to the pianist, then she might forfeit the payment. The kill-fee might be peanuts.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ I said. ‘Let’s arrange a suitable time.’

  She had calmed down a few degrees but I could see she was seething inside. She was a boiling cauldron of fury. Her hands were clenching and unclenching. She needed a doctor, a couple of calming Prozac or something. Dr Mallory would hardly regard it as an emergency if I called him.

  ‘That’s fine, then,’ I said. ‘How about six o’clock? When everyone is eating or getting ready to eat. The Princess Lounge will be all yours. You can rehearse to your heart’s content.’

  ‘Miss Jones? Are you busy?’ It was one of the uniformed young women from the purser’s office. She looked a bit flustered and out of place. ‘Do you have a minute?’

  ‘What is it? I’m with Miss Grayson.’

  ‘There’s a slight problem with security.’

  ‘OK, I’ll be along as soon as I can.’

  ‘Something else that you have got wrong?’ said Estelle nastily. ‘No, I don’t think so. Maybe y
our passport is out of date. Perhaps you put the wrong date of birth on it, by mistake, of course,’ I said, laughing as if it was another joke. ‘If you’ll excuse me. Miss Brook will see you out.’

  I left my office before I chucked my screen at her and ruined that perfect hairdo. It would be quite easy to do. It was rarely that I longed for some sort of physical release but this woman was the pits. Perhaps I should go on deck and chuck a few quoits overboard.

  Susan threw a look of despair at me. She didn’t want to be landed with Estelle Grayson for even five minutes. She would be flattened in minutes. I sent her an encouraging smile.

  ‘Miss Brook has my complete confidence,’ I said. ‘She will arrange the new rehearsal time. Come back to me with any further problems.’

  I hurried to the purser’s department, down amidships. Screens were humming. The computers recorded data about every passenger. It was all on screen. Even down to their last bar order of cokes.

  ‘So?’ I asked. ‘I’m here. Casey Jones. What’s the matter?’

  Richard Norton was in his office. There were two stewards with him, looking grey and gaunt despite their naturally light-brown Asian skin. I knew the name of one of them. It was Karim, the head steward, and a younger man.

  ‘This is Karim, the head steward. He has reported bad news. The suite of Mrs Foster has been turned over, burgled, ransacked, however you choose to put it. I’ve had a quick look round the stateroom and will return again shortly, but I thought you should know, Miss Jones.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry. How is Mrs Foster taking this?’

  ‘Quite badly.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her immediately. Was anything stolen?’

  ‘She doesn’t really know. That’s partly the problem. Her jewellery is still there. But she has no idea what her late husband might have had with him. The safe was forced open.’

  The younger steward was still shaken. He thought he might lose his job. I felt really sorry for him. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I said. ‘You can’t keep an eye on every stateroom and still do your work. Please don’t feel responsible. You can’t be watching for twenty-four hours of the day.’

  Karim gave me a ghost of a smile. ‘Her steward saw no one,’ he said. ‘Coming or going, any time. Mrs Foster found the stateroom in this mess. He called me immediately.’

  ‘That was the right thing to do. You reported the break-in and for that we thank you.’

  ‘Miss Jones, he is also worried about his job. He has a family. They are dependent on him.’ The young man still said nothing, eyes downcast, leaving it all to Karim.

  ‘Don’t worry, Karim. No one will lose their jobs. Please assure them, Mr Norton. It’s not their fault. I’ll go and see Mrs Foster.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll need to take a statement from Karim and Ali just for the record. Please tell Mrs Foster that I’ll be calling on her later, when she is more composed, so that she can also make a statement.’

  ‘Mr Norton, I have much work to do. All the bathrooms, putting clean towels. May I come back in half an hour?’ Ali spoke up for the first time.

  Richard Norton let the young man go. He knew nothing except what he had seen when he went into the stateroom to refill the minibar and take a supply of fresh ice. The entire suite had been turned over. Every drawer and cupboard and shelf was tipped on to the floor.

  ‘Come back when you have finished your duties.’

  ‘So, another twist in the tale,’ I said, when they had gone. ‘Two deaths, an overdose and the ransacked stateroom. Does it hang together?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten a spiked drink and walking the deck.’

  I flushed a little. I couldn’t remember much about walking the deck. I hoped I hadn’t said or done anything I might regret. But Richard Norton was a decent man. He might not remind me.

  ‘Have the right people been informed?’

  ‘The captain, of course. Southampton CID. Dr Mallory. We can’t make an international incident out of it. So far it is confined to the ship. We have to deal with it ourselves. Unless, of course, anything else significant happens.’

  ‘I hope not. My diva is making enough trouble.’

  ‘Warn her that she could be bumped off. It seems this is a very dangerous cruise.’

  I laughed. I didn’t take it seriously, nor would she. But I might use it as a threat. ‘I’ll go and see Mrs Foster and help her sort things out.’

  Richard nodded. ‘I thought you would. She’d trust you. I know it’s not easy having a strange person hanging up your dresses or folding your undies.’

  ‘You have trouble, do you, hanging up your dresses?’

  ‘Always.’ He hid a grin, wrote something in a folder and closed it. ‘See you around, Miss Jones.’

  ‘You can reckon on it. I can’t get off until the next port of call.’

  ‘And that is off the coast of Venezuela.’

  ‘The Isla Margarita and a chance for a swim. It has a beautiful beach within walking distance of the ship. I love going there.’

  ‘I know it. But it’s somewhat shallow unless you walk a long way out,’ said Richard. ‘Maybe I’ll see you on the beach.’

  Swimming was so good for my ankle. Two casts of plastering, one casually indifferent and one good, had rendered my ankle prone to pain and stiffness. The physiotherapist had recommended swimming to strengthen the muscles. But I hadn’t needed telling. I’d learned to swim at a young age, mostly a survival tactic when being chucked in the deep end by a brother or brothers. Testing whether I’d sink or swim was their routine holiday occupation.

  My brothers had dispersed all over the world so there was no chance of the duckings any more, but the instinct to swim to safety was inherent. It was another reason I liked a beach and not the pool.

  I left a message at the medical centre, telling Samuel Mallory what had happened and suggesting that a courtesy visit to Mrs Foster after that evening’s surgery might be appropriate. If he bit my head off, then I had another one.

  Mrs Foster had one of the best suites on the upper deck, not far from where they were preparing for this evening’s sail-away party on deck. It had a private balcony, a spacious sitting room, a magnificent king-sized bed and a marble bathroom with bath and Jacuzzi. I knew there was also a separate shower and two vanity hand basins. There was also a mirrored dressing room lined with cupboards. The sitting room had everything one could need: a long sofa, coffee table, writing desk, fridge, television, video, radio, private safe, telephone. Bliss.

  It would have made a very nice, self-contained flat for me. I could have lived in it quite comfortably. Mrs Foster opened the door an inch to my ringing the bell.

  ‘It’s Casey Jones, Mrs Foster. May I come in?’

  The sitting room was in chaos. Everything had been tipped on to the floors and cupboards and shelves were open and empty. Mrs Foster had been sitting on the edge of the sofa, drinking some tea. Ali had had the sense to make her a pot of tea and had cleared a space on the coffee table for the tray.

  ‘Come in, Miss Jones. I’m afraid we are in an awful mess. Look at it. I don’t know what to do or where to start.’ She was trembling and near to tears.

  ‘It looks awful, I know. What a mess. But I’ll help you tidy up.’

  ‘I really want to go home, you know. George dying so suddenly and now all this. I don’t think I can stand much more.’

  ‘That’s very understandable, Mrs Foster, and something we can talk about. The company can fly you home from any port. It all depends on who will be at your home, to look after you.’

  ‘Well, there’s no one actually. We don’t have any children. We have an excellent housekeeper, but I gave her the time off to go visit her son in America. I certainly wouldn’t expect her to come back to look after me.’

  ‘Let’s talk about it more later. Meanwhile, I’ll make a fresh pot of tea and we’ll start putting everything away. It won’t take long with two pairs of hands. And please tell me if you think anything is missing. There mus
t have been a reason for this. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t make sense,’ Mrs Foster repeated. ‘None of my jewellery has gone. It’s still all in its box in the safe. Not that I have much. George always said he preferred art to decorations.’

  It seemed to help Mrs Foster, to be immersed in a physical task. She told me where to hang things, and folded her own clothes. The intruder seemed to have given Mr Foster’s clothes a thorough going-over. Pockets were turned inside out, sleeves pulled through, even the trees in his shoes had been removed. I noticed that the hem of his outdoor coat had been ripped open but I didn’t mention it. Sometimes people kept things in linings.

  The drawers from the writing desk had been turned upside down, every shred of paper turned over. And all the books on the shelf above had been turfed out and flipped through, pages crumpled. I started restacking the books.

  ‘Did your husband bring a briefcase on board with him? Some men find them useful for passports and tickets and things, even when they’re not working.’

  ‘Oh yes, he brought his briefcase. He wouldn’t be separated from it. Worse than any woman and her handbag.’

  ‘So where is it now?’ I asked.

  She straightened up from folding a pile of cotton tops. They were once so colourful and fresh, but now they were creased and crumpled. I held out a laundry bag and she put them all in, nodding, adding a pile of her undies.

  ‘Yes, everything needs washing and ironing,’ she said. ‘I’d throw them away, but then I’d be left with only what I’m wearing …’

  ‘What about your husband’s briefcase?’

  ‘I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘Shall we have a good search?’

  She wandered about, looking behind the sofa, under the bed. ‘I don’t know where he kept it. It was of no interest to me. He carried it on when we boarded at Southampton and put it somewhere.’

  The stateroom was looking more shipshape now. I would ask Ali, her steward, to come in, thoroughly clean and vacuum everywhere, get the florist to deliver some flowers.