Second Sitting

by Stella Whitelaw

  Rosanna was refreshing in her candour. She made me feel a whole lot better. What could I have done? That was true. I had been a witness.

  We were on to circuit two. ‘So, Rosanna, what do you think this is all about? Bearing in mind that you had this threatening phone call at home. And that you don’t think your father’s death was accidental.’

  ‘OK, some greedy criminals have found out that this famous painting is hidden under a tatty reproduction on sale on this ship.

  George Foster is a proper legit art dealer, comes on cruise, hoping to spot it. But he dies. Heart attack or what. No chance of him finding it now. Nigel Garten spots it, buys it, then is toppled overboard. Goodbye Mr Garten.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘I think he threatened to blow the gaffe. He was fed up with it. So they had to shut him up.’

  ‘That’s awful, but you could be right. Not all a coincidence.’

  ‘No coincidence. All connected. Where is this painting now?’

  ‘I believe Joan Foster has it. It’s called Sunset over Amalfi. She bought a whole lot of paintings the other day, including the one that Nigel Garten had recently bought. They thought it would save all the hassle of probate and inheritance tax if they simply resold it. The painting had not left the ship, and was awaiting UK delivery.’

  ‘Do we know what this famous painting is?’ She seemed to know a whole lot more about it than I did. Television. Perhaps she watched the Open University.

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘But I looked up missing art work on the internet. There are quite a lot of missing paintings.’

  ‘Well, I think I know,’ she said with more confidence. ‘That awful man who kept phoning me, who threatened my father. He said it was a Cézanne.’

  ‘A Cézanne?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s what he said. Something about the Orange Sea. I didn’t understand what he meant. I don’t know any French.’

  ‘La Mer d’Orange? Or L’Orange de Mer? Is that what he said?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that. I can’t remember. I was too upset. I’m sorry, do you mind, can we talk about something else now?’

  She’d had enough questioning. I tried to distract her as we walked the last circuit. A number of passengers were disappearing to change for dinner, first sitting. Second sitting had another hour or so on deck, more space, empty deckchairs, the cool of the evening, receding coastlines to watch in peace.

  I had to change. Susan was no doubt exhausted by her day in the office, or was hurrying off for a drink with the charming Dr Mallory. If his surgery finished in time. He’d had a new crop of casualties.

  I took Rosanna back to her crew quarters. It was a basic cabin. A female officer was waiting to take over. ‘Would you like to come for another walk tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘We are at sea. All day. I should be able to find time.’

  ‘Thanks. And thank you for the cowboy hat. I love it to bits.’

  I was liking Rosanna more and more. A gutsy girl. She’d stowed away on-board to warn her father, but she hadn’t known what she was warning him about. And she was taking his death well. As if she had known it would end in tears.

  I took a quick bite in the officer’s mess, a Caesar salad, looking totally out of place in a mid-calf coral silk dress and cropped white crochet jacket. I was dressed for Ascot or Goodwood without the horses. And I had to remember the two times table. Wear nothing too short, too tight, too revealing, too expensive. But the evening was cooling down and I felt the cold. Sometimes I even went to bed with a hot-water bottle. Dr Mallory would no doubt find that amusing. He’d ring up and say in his deepest voice, ‘Shall I come round and warm you up?’

  The answer would always be, No, buster.

  Someone on board had the answer to all those questions we had talked about, but who was it?

  Word went round that Estelle was throwing a party that evening in the Galaxy Lounge when the last dancing had finished. She had invited almost all the crew, the entertainment staff and lots of passengers. I hoped she wasn’t going to put the cost on her expenses. I wasn’t signing for a party.

  Joe Dornoch was leaning over a rail, up front, smoking a cigarette furiously. He looked hunted and ill at ease.

  ‘Have you been invited to this party?’ he asked, coughing on the smoke, waving it about in a fruitless way.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Among a cast of hundreds. Is it a special occasion?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said morosely. ‘Estelle is going to announce our engagement.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘That’s wonderful. As long as you don’t want the captain to marry you. I don’t think shipboard weddings are legal any more.’

  He brightened slightly. ‘Aren’t they? Thank goodness. You see, I think Estelle is a stunning woman and she’s wonderful, but I don’t remember actually proposing to her. She says I did, but it’s all a horrible empty blank to me.’

  ‘Ah, then you have got a problem. You had better stop this party before it goes too far.’

  ‘Estelle would be furious. And she’s got some temper. You’d know that, only too well. She’d hate losing face in front of everyone.’

  ‘Then you’d better let Estelle have her party and then break off the engagement, very quietly, later. But preferably not while we are at sea, please. She still has two more shows to do and I don’t want her cancelling them. You’d better wait until we reach Southampton before you have your second thoughts.’

  ‘Of course, I could just disappear. Do a vanishing act. I have another contract on a cruise ship which starts immediately. Just time to go home and get my shirts washed and ironed. Estelle doesn’t know which line it is. I’ve never said.’

  The way he mentioned it made it sound as if there might be someone waiting at home to wash and iron his shirts. But I said nothing. He looked unhappy enough.

  ‘Go and enjoy the party. Play the loving fiancé. Blow a few kisses. You can do that. She’s bound to want to sing some of her numbers.’

  ‘She does. She’s been rehearsing songs all afternoon. Can’t you help me?’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do, Joe. At least she can sing and you can play the piano, quite brilliantly. It’ll be fun. Just enjoy it. Let her have her engagement party. Look upon it as show business, another performance.’

  ‘You won’t say anything?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s between you and Estelle.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He looked relieved. I’d moved a weight from his shoulders.

  I was treading on shredded glass between shows. Some of our lovely dancers were genuinely ill, others shell-shocked, allergic to nuts, had pulled ligaments, were sea-sick, hated their costumes, wanted to go home. I wished they were not so lissom and thin. Lunch was a lettuce leaf and a stick of celery. All their calories came from water. Daily intake: zero.

  It was a procession of complaints. I dealt with each person with compassion and understanding. It was their lifestyle. They had to survive if they wanted another job dancing on shore or on ship. The shows were always choreographed and produced on shore, then contracted to ships. Tonight’s show had to go on, however homesick they felt.

  The only throwing up that was allowed was off stage.

  ‘Think,’ I said. ‘This is a job. You have to do it. Sorry, but I can’t control the sea. You knew it was a ship when you signed on. Did you think it was an airship? Or a hovercraft?’

  I was racing between the shows. But all went well. No one fainted on stage. No one had a tantrum backstage. The dancers looked gorgeous, not a sequin out of place. They were great. They say the theatre is the best doctor.

  ‘Well done,’ I said as I went on stage to orchestrate the applause and the bows. My stomach was signalling a lack of food. Fortunately the band drowned the rumbles.

  I knew I would have to make an appearance at the engagement party. Estelle would regard it as a slight if I was not there. But I slipped upstairs first to the Grill and ordered an omelette and chips. It wouldn’t take seconds to make and I could eat
it just as fast.

  The waiter who served me seemed a little distant. I was used to lots of smiles and special consideration. A warm roll, butter pats, iced water, Miss Jones? Nothing. This one disappeared into the kitchen and didn’t reappear. I had to ask if my omelette was ever coming or were they waiting for the eggs to be laid?

  I hadn’t seen this waiter before. He had short peroxide hair, gelled current spiky fashion. It was such an unattractive look. I couldn’t understand why young men thought it made them look good. It was scarecrow mode.

  The omelette was perfect. I wolfed it down and thanked everyone.

  I only just made the party. Estelle was singing ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ to Joe’s accompaniment. He looked gaunt and strained. Estelle looked radiant, in her favourite red dress. Her skin was taut and glowing. She’d been in the salon for hours, using her staff discount, allowing skilful hands to work wonders on her skin.

  I took off the crochet jacket. It was warm in the crowded lounge.

  ‘So shall we make this a double engagement party?’ said Samuel, grinning as he slid to my side with a flute of something for me. It wasn’t champagne. Some sort of sparkling white wine. I wished he didn’t look so good, so dark and moody.

  ‘You and Susan?’ I said, with a perky smile of surprise. ‘Oh, how lovely. Wonderful. I hope you’ll be very happy together. I know she will be counting the days.’

  ‘I really love your sense of humour,’ he went on, sipping his drink. ‘We have so much in common.’

  ‘I didn’t think we had anything in common. So, if you’ll excuse me …’

  I went over to Amanda Banesto. She was looking gorgeous in a flimsy cream dress, all legs and high-heeled sandals. ‘How are you? How is your mother?’

  ‘She went to the cinema this evening with Joan, you know, her long-lost sister. I don’t know exactly what happened but they’ve got together and they are talking. They have been talking all day. So I can party and have fun.’

  ‘That’s great news. Miracles do happen. Forgive me for asking, but who is this handsome blond male who is often at your side? He looks very attentive.’

  ‘That’s Bruno. He seems to think he has to look after me, protect me.’

  ‘He seems a nice young man.’

  ‘Nice, yes, but sometimes a bit heavy going, boring. You can’t have everything, can you? But he keeps the sharks away and I’m grateful for that.’

  She laughed and moved on to join another group, networking with skill. Her model looks ought to get her on to television one day. She had the intelligence to be a presenter or news reader.

  Richard Norton came over to me, pouring refills on the way from a big bottle of sparkling wine. Estelle was cutting comers by not having a lot of catering staff around. It was a do-it-yourself party. Pass the crisps.

  ‘Casey, I’d like to run an idea past you,’ he said.

  ‘Shoot,’ I said, using his expression.

  ‘I want to set a trap, get this person out of hiding. Whoever it is must still be on the ship, waiting around for his chance.’

  ‘Waiting for his chance for what?’

  Richard looked baffled. ‘There must be a motive and there must be a connection. I think this missing painting you mentioned is the key. Will you help me?’

  ‘Am I to be the bait, the cheese in the trap? I’ll only do feta.’

  ‘I can’t ask a member of the crew, against regulations, and I can’t ask a passenger, much too dangerous.’

  ‘But I’m crew.’

  ‘Entertainments division, that’s different. I couldn’t ask an officer.’

  I didn’t see the difference. But at least Richard was thinking of doing something apart from sending emails ashore. And about time. Before the second sitting lost any more of its diners.

  ‘What are you planning?’ I was mellowing.

  ‘The art gallery is closed at the moment because of Tamara Fitzgibbon’s unfortunate disappearance at Acapulco. I thought you could open it for a special showing. Hold a competition perhaps? Spot the priceless painting or something? Have passengers come in and vote for which is the print with the Cézanne hidden behind it?’

  ‘I don’t even know for sure it’s a Cézanne. It’s all guesswork.’

  ‘So will you do it?’ he asked again, rapidly changing the direction of the conversation. ‘Will you be our feta cheese?’

  ‘Shall I have to wear a silly costume?’

  He was about to answer when Estelle switched on a music player and the Rolling Stones were thumping out ‘Can’t Get No Satisfaction’ at maximum decibels. Conversation was out. He shrugged his shoulders and moved on with the bottle.

  Estelle pulled Joe on to the dance floor and began gyrating her considerable curves in his direction. His face was a picture of acute embarrassment.

  I shrank against a wall, wondering when I could decently leave. I was not necessary to the proceedings. I’d congratulated the happy couple and drunk two glasses of their bubbly. Conclusion: time to sleep.

  Maria de Leger had the same thought. She appeared in the doorway of the Galaxy Lounge in a mauve satin dressing gown, her long white hair in a plait over her shoulder. She was very annoyed. She walked over to the music player and switched it off.

  ‘Mon Dieu. I protest,’ she said. ‘It is far too late for this abominable noise. Passengers are entitled to sleep. It can be heard everywhere.’

  Madame de Leger had a clear voice. It carried to all corners of the lounge and she looked a commanding figure despite her age. Estelle went redder than she had been before she started dancing.

  ‘This is a private party,’ spluttered Estelle, fuelled by several glasses of neat vodka drunk on the side. ‘And you’re not invited, grandma. Go back to your bed, you old crone.’

  The French woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Put your teeth back in and clear off on your broomstick. We’re enjoying ourselves. This is a party for young people.’

  Maria de Leger walked over to the perspiring Estelle, and spoke quite calmly. ‘You’re enjoying yourselves because people like me risked our lives in war zones in France, killing Germans with our bare hands. Would you like me to demonstrate how I did it?’

  Estelle wavered on her feet. Her befuddled mind wasn’t taking in whether this was a hoax or serious. She then told Madame de Leger what to do to herself in unacceptable language.

  In a second Estelle was in a half-nelson grip, one arm firmly pinioned behind her back. It was so fast I didn’t see it happen. This was no frail, elderly lady. This was one still prime fighting machine.

  But the hold was not tight enough to hurt and Estelle struggled out of it. She turned and picked up a pitcher of orange juice from a side table. It had hardly been touched. It went over Maria de Leger in a deluge of sticky orange liquid, drenching her, head to foot. The sound of shock stopped the party dead.

  ‘Alors,’ said Maria de Leger, after a pause. ‘C’est dommage.’

  ‘Go home, you old crone,’ Estelle shouted.

  ‘Turn off the lights,’ I said, taking charge. ‘The party’s over.’

  Twenty-Six - Panama Canal

  No one took much notice of the Panama Canal on the return passage. Been there, seen that, done it. They wanted new experiences, new places. This was when the various lecturers worked their kit off, keeping the passengers diverted and amused.

  But there was plenty to keep them diverted and amused this morning. The orange juice story went round the ship at a rate of knots.

  I had last night’s catastrophe to sort out. Captain Nicolas had summoned me to his office. He was not pleased. He had his stern face on, clicking and unclicking a ballpoint pen. There had been more than a few complaints about the noise and disruption.

  Passengers were known to sue if their quality of sleep was not one hundred per cent pleasant dreams.

  As he often said, ‘Ships have engines. What are we supposed to do? Tow them along behind?’

  But this was even more nerve-r
acking. Captain Nicolas seemed to think I was responsible for the party. Estelle was in worse trouble. Her two final shows had been cancelled by Head Office and she was confined to her cabin for the rest of the cruise. Bad behaviour was not tolerated. Joe Dornoch was nowhere to be seen between his scheduled playing selections from shows. He was no doubt celebrating his narrow escape and rehearsing a moving farewell speech … the shock, the embarrassment, the humiliation, but he would always love and respect her … etc.

  Captain Nicolas went straight to the point. ‘Last night’s fracas. I understand from other sources that you did not organize this party? Do you confirm this?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘I knew nothing about it until I was invited, late that evening. It was a private party.’

  ‘But you were there. You should have kept it under control. Estelle Grayson is under contract to you.’

  ‘Everything was under control until the music and the dancing started. It was the Rolling Stones, sir.’

  ‘I’m surprised you recognized it. Why didn’t you turn it off or turn the volume down? It was late at night. You should have known it would disturb sleeping passengers.’

  There was no answer to that. I’d been distracted. I’d been talking to Richard Norton about this harebrained scheme of his, using me as bait. How could I tell Captain Nicolas that I’d been more involved in catching a murderer on board ship. Not an admission that would go down too well.

  ‘And the unforgivable scene with Madame de Leger. Why didn’t you stop it before it went too far?’

  ‘It all happened so quickly,’ I said. Dumb answer. This was not going to look good on any personnel report. ‘In less than a minute, seconds in fact. And I was at the far side of the room, just about to go. I could hardly plough through like a Sherman tank. There were plenty of off-duty officers closer to the incident than me.’

  Brilliant parting shot. Direct hit midships. All canons firing. Captain Nicolas looked slightly disconcerted. ‘Unfortunately I don’t know who they were,’ he said. ‘No one will admit to being at the party now. Sorry, Casey, you were scapegoat number one. You know how it is.’