Second Sitting

by Stella Whitelaw

  I didn’t know but there you are. ‘I’m sorry it happened, of course. And if I could have prevented it, then I would have. I’ve lost a popular solo turn. Do you know anyone who can sing?’

  ‘Madame de Leger was full of praise for the way you took her back to her cabin and saw to everything. It must have been very late indeed by the time you got to your own bed.’

  ‘It was. Extremely late. And I had sticky orange juice all over me.’

  ‘Have your dress dry-cleaned and send me the bill.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Very kind.’

  I was dismissed. Captain Nicolas was a charming man but he could be terrifying at times. For a few moments it had been back to my schooldays and up before the headmistress when I was caught smoking in a bus shelter.

  As I left the captain’s office, Dr Mallory came out of his cabin. He’d showered and changed after his morning surgery and his dark hair was still wet like an otter.

  ‘My word, you do lead an exciting life, don’t you?’ he teased. ‘I wish I went to such lively parties. I only get invited to the dull ones.’

  ‘That old lady knows how to throw a half nelson,’ I said. ‘I wonder what else she knows? Could she throw a man overboard? Or stuff a man into a magic box so that he suffocated?’

  ‘Come off it, Casey. You like her. Everyone likes her. It’s not Madame de Leger. Let’s go and have a coffee. You need time to relax and talk.’

  He steered me towards one of the lounges and within seconds a smiling stewardess had put a pot of coffee and some big cups and saucers on the table in front of us.

  ‘How do you do it?’ I asked, letting the armchair hold my limp body. I was drained. ‘She knew what you wanted, without you saying a word.’

  ‘It’s a gift, Casey. Telepathic. If I sit down, it means I need coffee,’ he said, pouring. ‘I’ll be mother. I prescribe ten minutes of caffeine and small talk. You look shattered.’

  ‘I am shattered. I never got enough sleep. It was very late before Madame de Leger was hosed down and back in bed. We both needed a cup of tea. She is a remarkable woman. It isn’t what she says, it’s what she doesn’t say.’

  ‘Resistance worker?’

  ‘More than likely. That’s the impression although she doesn’t ever say exactly. She’s a mystery. But, I agree, I like her. I like her guts, her ability to survive. She is a tribute to all the women who did courageous things in the war.’

  ‘So are we any closer to solving all our mysteries?’ Samuel was pouring out seconds. He was obviously in need of caffeine as well. I didn’t ask about his cases, the injuries, patient confidentiality and all that.

  ‘Richard Norton is planning a trap with bait. Has he told you about it?’

  Samuel looked at me sharply. ‘No, he hasn’t but don’t do it, Casey. Forget it. If he wants bait then he can use one of his own people.’

  ‘But I’ve almost promised …’

  ‘Un-promise. I’m warning you, Casey. Have nothing to do with this plan. OK, I know I haven’t exactly gone along with you in the cause of all these deaths, but listen to me now, stay clear. Don’t get involved. Let the guys at Southampton take over.’

  ‘But it’ll be too late then. The passengers will have disembarked and gone home. Every scrap of evidence wiped clean with disinfectant. No, it’s got to be done while we are at sea, where nothing and no one can escape. And now, before we reach Ponta Delgada in the Azores.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Casey, you’re mad.’ He looked distraught. ‘We’ve got a murderer aboard. Just wear your pretty dresses and keep out of his way.’

  ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ I said. ‘I have other responsibilities.’

  ‘You’re not responsible for sudden deaths.’

  For once, he was serious. Samuel Mallory looking serious was disturbing. The sparkle had gone. Those eyes were peering into me, trying to reach my soul. My equilibrium rocked. Did he mean it? Was he really concerned? Men say one thing and mean another. It happens all the time.

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘I don’t think you can. How many things have happened to you already? You got drugged, nearly pushed overboard, almost missed the ship, locked in the art gallery, a glass thrown at you? Are these all ridiculous coincidences? No, Casey, you are poking your nose into organized crime and that’s not in your contract, is it? Stay out of trouble. Look, I’m warning you. Please take some notice.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  ‘No way. These things happened. Think back.’

  ‘Part of my contract is seeing to the welfare of passengers. And that’s what I’m doing,’ I said, dredging up what was left of my confidence. ‘Welfare isn’t only putting on shows and standing in for the bingo caller. I’m here to make sure that this cruise is the best holiday they have ever had.’

  Samuel was looking at me with a strange expression. It could have been exasperation or admiration. Who could tell? He was an enigma.

  He stood up. ‘I have a couple of sick patients to go and see, cabin calls. Then I’m going to play quoits in some crew versus passenger tournament. I shall rid myself of any aggression in the time-honoured way of chucking quoits overboard.’

  ‘We lose more quoits …’ I said.

  ‘Remember what I said. I don’t want you as a patient after some horrendous stake-out in the art gallery.’

  It was a sobering thought but I didn’t want to think about it.

  ‘Haven’t you got a lifeboat drill this morning?’ he added over his shoulder as an afterthought as he walked away. ‘It’s on the rota.’

  I was down to my cabin in one minute, changed into full uniform and donned a lifejacket in the second minute, back to the Princess Lounge as the six bell alarm sounded. Those bells. The clocks were always moving, forwards or backwards. This one had caught me out.

  ‘This is a practice drill,’ said the loudspeakers. ‘Passengers need not be alarmed. All crew to muster points.’

  The Princess Lounge was muster point for a certain number of crew, stewards, and other personnel. They stood about in clusters, wearing lifejackets, grinning, not taking it very seriously. I had a walkie-talkie. I was being informed that there was a fire in one of the engine rooms and that an emergency fire-fighting crew were dealing with it. Not real, of course.

  I went through the procedure of allocating lifeboats and they filed outside, crocodile style, one hand on the shoulder of the man in front, on their knees as if there was smoke. Fire on-board was the most feared disaster. It did not bear thinking about. But everyone had to know what to do in such an emergency.

  A few passengers watched out of curiosity as we shuffled out on to the decks. If it ever really happened, then they would be an important part of what we were drilled to do. This time the lifeboats were not winched down, but sometimes when we were in port, the drill went further with mock ‘casualties’ and lifeboats launched into the water.

  The loudspeakers continued to inform passengers that this was a practice drill and nothing to be alarmed about. Except that I had almost forgotten about it. Oh dear, Confused Casey. My concentration was being filtered down the drain.

  The canal was choppy and churning with a wind force four or five. Not ideal for launching lifeboats. It was a darker blue than usual and the jungle trees were swaying on both banks. I saw an alligator slither down a bank and into the water with barely a splash. They gave me the creeps.

  ‘My goodness, the things you have to do,’ said Mrs Fairweather, accosting me outside the lounge as I took off my lifejacket and folded in the straps.

  ‘Everyone has to know what to do,’ I said. ‘It could save lives.’

  ‘It’s so reassuring,’ she went on. ‘I can see you are in uniform, looking so official, but supposing it happened in the middle of a show or a bingo session?’

  ‘No time for uniforms then. Grab a lifejacket and get to your muster station. Do you know your muster station, Mrs Fairweather?’

  She smiled weakly. ‘No, I’m afraid I don
’t.’

  ‘It’s on a notice behind the door of your cabin.’

  ‘I never read notices.’

  Thus spoke one of the ill-informed. I made her promise to have a look and remember where her muster point was. She agreed but it was not something I could check on.

  Richard Norton’s scheme was scheduled for this afternoon. I was supposed to host an event in the art gallery. Guess which was the fake painting. Even I didn’t know which one he had doctored. But I had a good idea of the real painting that the crooks were looking for. Joan Foster had it. Sunset Over Amalfi. And I knew why it was wrong. The painting had the sunset in the wrong place. Sun sets over the west. This painting was facing east. I’d been to Amalfi. Was it a mistake or a clue?

  First I had to go and see Estelle Grayson. Her steward reported that she was having hysterics. It was not something that I wanted to witness but it was necessary.

  I could hear the hysterics before I was halfway down the corridor. She was disturbing everyone within hearing distance. It had to be stopped. I knocked on the door and she opened it.

  She launched herself on to me. A major shock. Several overweight stone of uncontrolled woman knocked me sideways. I hung on to the door.

  ‘Casey, Casey, this is so unfair,’ she shrieked.

  ‘Hold on, Estelle,’ I gasped. ‘I can’t help you if you don’t let me breathe. Stand back. Take some deep breathes, slowly now.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m innocent. Believe me. Singing is my life. I’m done for. This could ruin my career.’

  ‘I’m well aware that this might give you the reputation of being volatile and a bit unstable and managements might be wary of booking you in the future.’ I laid it on thick. ‘It’s too late now to undo how you behaved at your party but you can try to repair the damage.’

  ‘Tell me how, please,’ Estelle sobbed. ‘I’ll do anything.’

  ‘First of all you must go and grovel before Madame de Leger. Take her a couple of your CDs and a bunch of flowers. She’s not a vindictive woman. She’ll take it all in good humour and maybe put in a good word for you.’

  ‘I’ll do that. I’ll do that right away.’ She was off to her mirror to repair the damage to her face first. I followed her to the bathroom door.

  ‘And you need to email a genuine letter of remorse to Head Office. Say you were overcome by the emotion of the occasion. Say you didn’t know you were drinking vodka, you thought it was orange juice. But you must sound sincere and penitent or they’ll know you are just trying to save your job.’

  ‘I will, I will,’ said Estelle, painting on a remorseful face, very pale, no false eyelashes. ‘Thank you, thank you, Casey. I feel so much better now. Maybe it’ll work out all right after all.’

  ‘As you are still technically confined to cabin, I’ll arrange for your steward to escort you to Madame de Leger’s cabin and then bring you back.’

  Her face fell. She had scented freedom. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Orders from Head Office, so don’t argue. Don’t argue about anything. Do as I say and it may all blow over.’

  ‘Not like that blooming Hurricane Dora, I hope. I was so ill. I’ve never been so ill.’ Her face brightened. ‘I could say I was still suffering from the after-effects of the hurricane, couldn’t I?’

  She had a wardrobe full of CDs. She rummaged around and pulled out two. They would be top quality. Estelle could certainly sing, especially in a recording studio. All the faults erased.

  ‘Compose your letter of apology and get a copy to me quickly,’ I said. ‘I’ll see that it’s emailed straight away. I shouldn’t waste any lime, Estelle. You’ve a few bridges to repair.’

  I was also thinking of Joe Dornoch, who had clearly cooled but maybe not to past freezing point. He might like the new sincere, remorseful Estelle. She might suddenly look like a soulmate.

  Twenty-Seven - At Sea

  A crowd was gathering outside the art gallery. It had been closed since Tamara’s unexplained disappearance in Acapulco. They were curious about this so-called competition. If I made a few sales, I’d have no idea how to process them. I’d take the money, sign a receipt and run.

  Richard Norton had advertised a prize for the winner of the competition. The passengers loved prizes. Rumour had spread that it was a free cruise for two but I had my doubts. Conway were not that generous. More like a sweatshirt with logo.

  No champagne this time around. No one had authorized it. The sun was a glowing orange globe high in the sky and the heat intense, blistering. The easterly wind was only force two. Hardly a breeze. People were glad to come inside to the air-conditioned cool of the gallery.

  I wandered round, looking at the reproductions and prints on the walls and on easels, wondering which one Richard had doctored. There was a fourteen by twelve painting with huge daubs of acrylic paint, mostly white or bright blue, which looked suspect. It was a colourful scene. No one could argue with fishing boats drawn up on a golden shore, a sparkling sea in the background. A few well-behaved seagulls.

  ‘Are you staying around?’ I asked Richard. I didn’t fancy being on my own. Anything could happen and it probably would.

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I can’t. I don’t want to be spotted,’ he said. ‘It might scare off the very person we are trying to entice into the gallery.’

  ‘So who are we trying to entice?’

  ‘I don’t know really, Casey. Sorry, it could be anyone. There’s a list as long as my arm.’

  ‘How reassuring. What about my arm?’ I glanced at the big man. ‘You’re not being fair to me. Is it a thirty-four inch arm, one an inch?’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said heavily, my attempt at humour not going down too well. Perhaps he was under a lot of pressure and it wasn’t a good joke.

  I unlocked the gallery doors and a crowd of passengers swarmed in. I hurriedly assembled my entry forms, designed that morning by Susan who prided herself on her presentational skills. She’d done a PowerPoint course. The entry forms were pretty snazzy, including the ship’s logo and a background sketch of the cruise route. I liked it.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. This is a competition to test your artistic scrutiny.’ There was a faint titter. ‘One of the paintings on show is a fake. See if you can spot it. Entry forms on my desk. Just put your cabin number and the number of the painting that doesn’t stand up to its description in the catalogue. And there’s a brilliant prize,’ I promised recklessly.

  I was asked a lot of questions along the lines of what have we got to do, which painting is it and where are the entry forms? Sometimes I don’t think anyone listens to anything. Announcements are a complete waste of time.

  ‘What if we all get the right answer?’ someone asked.

  ‘The winning name will be drawn out of a hat,’ I ad-libbed.

  ‘Who’ll do it?’

  Neptune, a mermaid, a passing dolphin perhaps? I had no idea. ‘The captain, of course. Captain Nicolas. On the bridge. A ceremony with every winning competitor present.’

  That seemed to satisfy everyone and there was general milling around the gallery. It was not a competition which took very long. A ballot box, hastily borrowed from the bingo cupboard, was filling up with entry forms. The crowd was beginning to thin out.

  ‘I simply can’t make up my mind,’ said Mrs Fairweather, hovering between two adjacent paintings. ‘They both look fake to me. Can I put down both numbers?’

  ‘Your entry might be disqualified.’

  ‘Miss Jones, which one do you think it is? This Naples coastal picture or this Bengal tiger? Neither of them seem quite right.’

  ‘The tiger looks a bit cross-eyed,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it does or it could be all those facial stripes. They distort the face.’

  The gallery was almost empty. I felt a shiver of fear. This had not worked the way Richard Norton had planned. Soon it would be only Mrs Fairweather dithering about, and me. She had already filled in one entry f
orm and then torn it up, the pieces scattering like confetti.

  What had I let myself in for? Samuel had warned me, tried to prevent me going ahead. But I hadn’t listened to him. I always knew best, carried away by an enthusiasm to get things done.

  Mrs Fairweather was the last person in the gallery now. ‘You’ve been such a help, dear. There, that’s my entry.’ She popped a multi-folded form into the box. ‘Changed my mind at the last moment. It wasn’t either of those other two. I spotted a completely different painting. Obviously a fake.’

  She left the gallery in a swirl of some pungent eau de cologne. I went down on my knees to pick up the confetti. A draught touched my face as the door swung back. Someone had come in. ‘Allow me, miss.’

  It was a white-coated steward. He began picking up the pieces of paper. I’d never seen him before. He was in his late twenties, spiky yellow peroxide hair, half-glasses. Then again, maybe I had seen him somewhere before.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, getting up off my knees. He was wearing trainers with flashes, not the white lace-up uniform footwear. ‘Have you come here for something?’

  ‘I’ve come to clear the refreshments,’ he said.

  ‘We didn’t have any.’

  ‘Not the usual champagne and canapés?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘There must be some mistake. I was definitely told to come and clear up. Collect the empties.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Where do you usually work?’

  ‘The Terrace café, miss.’

  ‘I don’t remember you and I eat there most days.’

  ‘I’ve seen you, miss, many times, tucking into your bacon and eggs.’

  He stood up with a handful of paper. He was of medium height yet he had a bulky strength. I looked at his hands. They were boxer’s hands, fisty and knuckled, some of the skin was scraped. He wasn’t wearing gloves. The catering manager was very particular that the stewards wore gloves, even when clearing.

  ‘Really? How strange. I never eat bacon and eggs. Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving, I have the competition to sort out.’