Murder on Board

by Mark Rice

  Shirley again filled in and we played three interesting games.

  The hour between cards and the choir rehearsal was filled by chatting to Jennifer, who continues to be, at a bit of a loose end as a lone passenger.

  The sun shone and the pool areas were busy with bathers lounging about and displaying copious quantities of flesh. Some passengers are now as red as berries but they still seek more of the sun's rays.

  The choir rehearsal today was a combined male and female class and David announced the performance date as Monday 21st of February, the afternoon before we arrive in Southampton.

  Aoife was conspicuous by her absence and no mention of her was made. David was now leading the project with Tony just doing the admin, handing out music sheets, doing a bit of coaching and leading his one song, America.

  Our small tenor team of Geoff, Arthur, Kotchek and I, were all present but Arthur was still struggling with his throat. Kotchek sat behind me and as far as I could smell, the halitosis of yesterday was mercifully absent. I came armed with sucky sweets to offer around to all, if necessary, but they stayed firmly in my pocket. Tenors number about thirteen, bass about twenty-five and the women about sixty in number.

  “Singing falsetto, like Frankie Valli does, does not diminish your manhood,” David said. “It’s been proven from scientific research carried out on wild birds that the male bird increases his chances of mating and woo-ing the female bird when he sings a wider range of notes. Of course, he also uses his colourful plumage.”

  "C'mon men, surely you want to increase your chance of mating?" he addressed the bunch of septuagenarians and older. Several of their wives sat across from them and laughed rather too enthusiastically.

  It was mid-afternoon and the Valentine’s Day Chocolate Buffet at the Imperial restaurant was already in full swing. I entered the room and found that there were cordoned avenues by which to approach the chocolate buffet. These were policed by smartly dressed waiters. I chose the left-hand route and was guided to tables on both sides laden with chocolate treats. Hundreds of chocolate desserts of all shapes and sizes had been placed around a fifteen-foot tall chocolate fountain that continuously gurgled while producing an endless river of liquid chocolate.

  The idea was to choose a dessert, then the waiter would submerge the already chocolate coated cake slice, bonbon, biscuit or tart under the thick stream of dark chocolate. The calorie-laden plate was then returned to you for consumption.

  Margaret had chosen to skip this indulgence so I ate with strangers all too pre-occupied with their desserts to make conversation.

  I joined Margaret at the pool where she was chatting with Jill, a woman from London who was awaiting a knee operation. Her husband, Ray, lay sleeping beside her.

  Jill was aware of the deaths of two passengers on board, both very elderly. She also knew of a couple, the husband of which had suffered a stroke in November but hadn't consulted a doctor for fear of being told not to take the cruise. He subsequently suffered a second and more debilitating stroke on board and was still on board but now cabin bound.

  I left them chatting and took to the treadmill in the gym and did my best time so far running five kilometres. We just had time for a swim in the cold water of the Crystal pool and then down to the cabin for a quick change of clothes.

  Tonight’s dress code was black-tie. I noticed, as our hands were being sanitised at the entrance to the restaurant, that the women were being given long stemmed artificial red roses.

  "What about us?" I heard several men protest, muttering black words about sexism. I also spotted pink balloons bedecking the entrance pillars from floor to ceiling. Once inside I saw that all pillars in the restaurant had pink balloons attached. Our smiling waiters stood by our table.

  How do they do it? Greeting the guests so cheerfully for two sittings, night after night, following long days of working in the other restaurants and communal areas from early morning, snatching a few hours break along the way. They should be well remunerated but maybe it is just as well that I don’t know their wages.

  The camera team entered the restaurant to capture diners. We were asked, as couples at the table all were, did we want pictures taken? The other's seasoned travellers and presumably with bulging albums of pictures from other cruises declined but we agreed.

  "Look at me" said Fiona, our photographer clicking away. "Now look at each other," and finally, "Go on–kiss each other.”

  In front of our friends, it was hugely embarrassing. Of course, during the meal, Margaret mentioned my first poem and they insisted on hearing it and, after some weak protest from me, I read it out. I think it achieved its aim of making it relevant to all and having a bit of humour thrown in.

  During the meal Roger spoke at length to Frank and I about a disaster that befell the British army in 1850 at Hawkes Ridge.

  “I must admit Roger, I can’t recall what happened at Hawkes Ridge!” said Frank. “Tell us more.”

  I was glad Frank had said that as I hadn’t a clue myself.

  Roger continued “You see, it was at Hawkes Ridge that the Zulus wiped out a regiment of 1,500 men. However the next day they attacked again but this time they were repelled by a well organised second detachment, who numbered less than three hundred and who only lost thirteen men themselves.”

  “I wondered to myself why that was and what I found out was very interesting,” Frank went on. “Part of the reason for the huge Zulu's losses was their tradition. Once they felled a soldier they always stopped to kneel down and disembowel him there and then. This meant leaving themselves wide open to being shot. If they had just kept running men through with the spears and coming back later for the trophy taking they would have done much better.”

  “And,” I asked. “the other saving grace for the British soldiers was?”

  Frank smiled and added the missing factor. “Though the Zulu's had captured a large quantity of British weapons the previous day, they hadn't the understanding in how to load, focus and fire them so the lethal weapons proved to be of little use to them in the end.”

  In his telling of the story I could see a sharp and analytical brain still functioning. He liked to know things. He liked to figure out why things happened as they did. There was always a reason and he sought to find that reason.

  “How about the outbreak of deaths on board this ship a few days ago Roger?” asked Frank. “Have you any further news from your contact with the officers?”

  Before Roger could answer Margaret interrupted him. “Have you all heard that our Bridge Instructor Brendan has been placed under arrest?”

  “No, I haven’t,” “Roger said.” Tell me more.”

  And so she did. The table hung on her every word and it seemed Roger’s contacts on board had let him down on this one.

  “Good grief,” said Frank visibly surprised. “So it wasn’t food poisoning after all?”

  I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and I had a strong urge to go to the toilet and puke my guts up.

  “Shut up, Margaret,” is what I longed to say, but I had to sit there po-faced and expressionless as my antics were brought to the attention of the whole table. When she’d finished there was a stunned silence.

  Finally, Frank spoke. “Why did Brendan do it then? I can’t see the motive.”

  “No,” pondered Roger. “Neither can I. Something just doesn’t fit together in this jigsaw. It’s just so bizarre.”

  I could almost see the cogs moving in his brain as he rotated the facts in his consciousness, trying to make them fit better. The only silver lining in this happening was that I had never shared my frustration with the intermediate class over any of our previous evening meals. Margaret saw my frustration with them only once and as I am her boring steady retired accountant husband, it would never cross her mind that I could be responsible for all those deaths.

  The conversation went on and on until it was chuck out time for the restaurant and the waiters ushered us to the doors.

  We we
nt straight to the Gaiety Theatre and found two seats in the very front row for John Stevens’ show. We were wedged between Geoff, Sarah, Bill and Joan. I'd enjoyed his first show so much I wondered if I was expecting too much of him for the second but I need not have worried. He sang brilliantly and the orchestra were on fire. The only faults were when some video clips failed to materialise when requested and John, manfully adapted his program and worked around it. He finished with a unique version of the House of the Rising Sun, an Eric Burden and the Animals hit from the 1960s. There was plenty of Frank Sinatra, Matt Munro, Nat King Cole and many others. He did a duet with a Dean Martin stand-in, aka Brian Koran, The Lady is a Tramp, which was probably the weak spot of the show.

  At one stage he asked the audience to turn the person sitting next to them and say "I love you," given that it was St Valentine’s night. Bill caught me by surprise. Ignoring Joan, his wife, Bill turned to me and said, "I love you, Luke" And accompanied the words by delivering a big wet kiss on my stunned lips.

  Day 44

  Wednesday 15th February.

  Island of St Vincent, Cape Verde.

  We’d docked in the deep-water harbour of Mindelo, the main town on St Vincent island, one of the nine main islands that make up the Cape Verde islands almost four hundred miles to the west of Africa. The five largest islands in the group are also known as the Barlavento or the Winward islands. The deepwater harbour is made from a volcanic crater and though the name of the islands are Verdi, meaning green, there is no green to be seen on these imposing volcanic mountains that rise up around the harbour.

  We played tennis for an hour or more onboard before disembarking on a cloudy windy day. Octavian Cruises had arranged shuttle buses to transport all to the town centre. We met Marge and Rob and went with them as they been here last year and knew the town.

  Beggars approached us as we exited the bus and walked up the hill. We turned right into a small square and saw a church at the far end of it. Outside the church and on the steps sat many people and dogs. The people didn't beg until we were leaving the church which was simply decorated but had a certain beauty about it. Things looked a bit grim in this town.

  We walked along the street until some familiar faces came towards us. Joan and Bill advanced with warnings of passengers being robbed of bags and laptops and we were told to be on our guard. Looking about I saw there was no sign of any police presence either.

  Bill had, however, made friends with the local kids by buying them sweets. "I'm missing me grand-children," he confided to us.

  "You'll change your tune next Friday when you've been back home for a few days," I warned. "You'll be begging for another holiday, mark my words!"

  In the large market square, the area had been split into two raised zones, both accessible by steps or ramps. Two circles of cafes were in the centre of one area, where the customers, all locals, sat at tables outside. There was no Wi-Fi in these cafes. All around the market and neighbouring streets groups of men hung about with nothing to do. There were phone repair stalls and stalls just selling clunky running shoes. We spotted plenty of passengers out and about but Rob and Marge took a protective interest in a frail couple whom they spotted were struggling with getting about. Both were well into their eighties and they had somehow made it to the market square, her with the tell-tale Parkinson’s tremor and in a wheelchair and him pushing her along and looking very, very tired.

  We all helped to get her wheelchair down off one section of the market where there wasn't a ramp and up onto section where there was. In a poorly thought out way, the ramp only partly did the job and left the wheelchair wheel dangling eight inches above the road.

  We visited the naval museum which was located on the harbour front and it was a lovely old four storey whitewashed building that offered beautiful views at several levels, including a roof-top view of the harbour. It’s collection of maritime historic fishing equipment reminds us that Cape Verdi was a major whaling community and at one stage in the 1820s, three hundred and twenty-nine ships set sail daily to searching for whales. Not to admire these huge animals and photograph them, but to capture and kill them. They'd spear the whale in the head, strap it's body to the side of the ship and with a roaring furnace fire lit on deck, they'd melt the whale down to blubber, oil and salt it's meat while still at sea.

  Outside the museum a large group of men and women gathered under a roofed, open-sided shed, playing cards and gambling. Beyond them, further along, the frontage, fishermen were repairing their boats and women sat on street corners with plastic basins of small silver fish for sale.

  With time running out, we rode a shuttle back to the ship, handing our change in escudo's to a beggar near the shuttle bus. Back onboard the sun shone and we sat on sun loungers for an hour or more lapping up the rays until clouds arrived.

  Once again we met up with our fellow diners in the restaurant. The meal was an extravagancy of fine food and, as usual, I felt obliged to eat every one of the five courses on offer. A crash diet will be called for once we return home.

  "Your table has been booked in the Spice restaurant for 18:30 tomorrow night," Ali told us. He’d asked that we book all other meals through him and we did, hoping he’d benefit.

  "Luke, the Chivas Regal blended whisky sampling is happening again tonight at the atrium," whispered Frank.

  “Count me in,” I said, enthusiastically. So, once again, I went with him and sampled the whisky, one month on from the last sampling. I was no closer to spending £32 on a litre of the blended whisky.

  “What do you think, Craig?” I sought his opinion as Scotland is renowned for its whisky and I’d seen him sip on a glass, at dinner, earlier in the night.

  Not surprisingly he was scathing in his opinion of the whiskey on offer which though crossing his lips never got down his throat. He spat it back into the glass in disgust and pulled a face as if I’d poisoned him or given him a spoon of foul tasting medicine.

  "Ach, Luke. Don’t go near that blended crap! If you must buy what they have on board then stick to pure malt whisky" and then he added “If you want my opinion, I recommend Glenfiddick.” With that, he wasted no more of his time on the matter and headed for the theatre.

  The Gaiety Theatre featured Jimmy Juttle of Jimmy Juttle and the Renegades, and he went down a storm. Forty years on from his only chart hit Alone with You he is still making a living from music. He is a rather stout, short, bald, black man with gleaming white teeth and a gentle manner. Born in Newcastle he was part of the Northern Soul circuit of the 1970s and his light shone for a fairly brief period of time. His act tonight is based on the music of true soul giants, the Temptations, Smokey Robinson, Stylistics, the Drifters, Gladys Knight etc so we all knew the words and all sang along, clapping to the beat. His vocals sounded delicate and I thought his mike needed the volume turned up a tad but the SS Azara orchestra’s soul train of musicians got into the groove and carried his vocals beyond what he could reasonably expect. He got called back for an encore and sang Gladys Knight’s Portrait of My Love, which was a rather low-key number to end on but to be fair he does have a second show to perform tonight.

  Outside, a clamour of female fans were waiting to speak with him, many only teenagers when he was at his height, fame-wise. He kindly took the time to speak with each one.

  Margaret was tiring and in pain with her back and hip. Having taken all the permitted painkillers the only option was bed and sleep. She'd also forgotten her hearing aid for the entire evening so the meal and any spoken words by Jimmy Juttle had passed her by.

  Today we’d taken the last of our anti-malaria tablets so maybe Margaret's tiredness and vivid dreams will end after tonight.

  We’d had the first notification regarding the end of the cruise this evening and it’s always a sad moment. We were given deadlines for specifying a time we want to disembark at when we dock in Southampton. If we wish to make an early start and can carry our own baggage, without assistance, we need to keep all our baggage in our own
room the night prior to docking and we need to notify reception by noon this Sunday.

  Day 45

  Thursday 16th February.

  At sea heading for Tenerife, Canary Islands.

  Margaret had another rough night. I woke and snuck into the bathroom, showered and shaved before dressing quietly via the light from the bathroom. The cabin door clicked closed behind me and I left for breakfast on my own.

  Sitting at the foot of the atrium stairs, I slipped my socks and runners on. It was 07:30 but I could hear no movement around the ship. Down in Tiffany’s Bar two waiters were opening up the bar and a couple of passengers sat by the window.

  I strode down the long-carpeted deck past Lawton’s where we will be in our bridge class and coincidentally I spotted Brendan Flood, our bridge teacher, approaching me, as I took a photograph of the Chaplin cinema entrance.

  "I’m a keen photographer myself," he said. "when no one’s about."

  “Good to see you, Brendan.” I shook his hand. “Is all that confusion cleared up for you? Are you a free man?”

  He nodded. “I’m free for now anyway. They released me yesterday after I’d spoken with a solicitor who intervened on my behalf and is going to represent me. I’m free subject to further investigations and I’ve promised to co-operate when we land back in Southampton.”

  I pushed my luck a little and probed a bit more. “Tell me, Brendan, what do you think went on?”

  He scratched his head and removed his glasses wiping them with the front of his cotton t-shirt. “I think it was food poisoning myself but the poison on the paper is hard to explain. Apparently, the poison used was a type sold in the Carribbean for use on animals. I mean how in God’s name did that get on the copier paper? I’m rightly confused by all this. The one positive point I can take from this nightmare is that there are none of my fingerprints on the sheets of paper so they can’t prove it was me. Anyway, I must fly. Speak to you later.” And off he went.