Singing in the Shrouds. Ngaio Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ or an inquisitive spinster, they were of too deeply unconscious a nature to be recollected. Like many people of an irascible temperament, he seemed to find compensation for his troubles in the profundity of his slumber.

      So, too, did Father Jourdain, who on finishing his prayers, getting into bed and putting himself through one or two pretty stiff devotional hoops, fell into a quiet oblivion that lasted until morning.

      Mr Donald McAngus took a little time to recover from the circumstances that attended his late arrival. However he had taken coffee and sandwiches in the dining-room and had eyed his fellow-passengers with circumspection and extreme curiosity. His was the not necessarily malicious but all-absorbing inquisitiveness of the Lowland Scot. He gathered facts about other people as an indiscriminate philatelist gathers stamps: merely for the sake of adding to his collection. He had found himself at the same table as the Cuddys – the passengers had not yet been given their official places – and had already discovered that they lived in Dulwich and that Mr Cuddy was ‘in business’ though of what nature Mr McAngus had been unable to divine. He had told them about his trouble with the taxi. Distressed by Mrs Cuddy’s unwavering stare he had tied himself up in a tangle of parentheses and retired unsatisfied to his room and his bed.

      There he lay tidily all night in his gay crimson pyjamas, occupied with thoughts so unco-ordinated and feckless that they modulated imperceptibly into dreams and were not at all disturbed by the reiterated booming of the siren.

      Miss Abbott had returned from the call box on the wharf, scarcely aware of the fog and with a dull effulgence under her darkish skin. The sailor at the gangway noticed, and was afterwards to remember, her air of suppressed excitement. She went to bed and was still wide-awake when the ship sailed. She watched blurred lights slide past the porthole and felt the throb of the engines at dead slow. At about one o’clock in the morning she fell asleep.

      Jemima Carmichael hadn’t paid much attention to her companions: it took all her determination and fortitude to hold back her tears. She kept telling herself angrily that crying was a voluntary physical process, entirely controllable and in her case absolutely without justification. Lots of other people had their engagements broken off at the last minute and were none the worse for it: most of them without her chance of cutting her losses and bolting to South Africa.

      It had been a mistake to peer up at St Paul’s. That particular kind of beauty always got under her emotional guard; and there she went again with the man in the opposite seat looking into her face as if he’d like to be sorry for her. From then onwards the bus journey had seemed intolerable but the walk through the fog to the ship had been better. It was almost funny that her departure should be attended by such obvious gloom. She had noticed Mrs Dillington-Blick’s high-heeled patent leather shoes tittupping ahead and had heard scraps of the Cuddys’ conversation. She had also been conscious of the young man walking just behind her. When they had emerged from the passageway to the wharf he said:

      ‘Look, do let me carry that suitcase,’ and had taken it out of her hand before she could expostulate. ‘My stuff’s all on board,’ he said. ‘I feel unimportant with nothing in my hand. Don’t you hate feeling unimportant?’

      ‘Well, no,’ Jemima said, surprised into an unconventional reply. ‘At the moment, I’m not minding it.’

      ‘Perhaps it’s a change for you.’

      ‘Not at all,’ she said hurriedly.

      ‘Or perhaps women are naturally shrinking creatures, after all. “Such,” you may be thinking, “is the essential vanity of the human male.” And you are perfectly right. Did you know that Aubyn Dale is to be a passenger?’

      ‘Is he?’ Jemima said without much interest. ‘I would have thought a luxury liner and organized fun would be more his cup-of-tea.’

      ‘I understand it’s a rest cure. Far away from the madding camera and I bet you anything you like that in no time he’ll be missing his spotlights. I’m the doctor, by the way, and this is my first long voyage. My name’s Timothy Makepiece. You must be either Miss Katherine Abbott or Miss Jemima Carmichael and I can’t help hoping it’s the latter.’

      ‘You’d be in a bit of a spot if it wasn’t,’ Jemima said.

      ‘I risked everything on the one throw. Rightly, I perceive. Is it your first long voyage?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You don’t sound as excited as I would have expected. This is the ship, looming up. It’s nice to think we shall be meeting again. What is your cabin number? I’m not being fresh: I just want to put your bag in it.’

      ‘It’s 4. Thank you very much.’

      ‘Not at all,’ said Dr Makepiece politely. He led the way to her cabin, put her suitcase into it, made her a rather diffident little bow and went away.

      Jemima thought without much interest: ‘The funny thing is that I don’t believe that young man was putting on an act,’ and at once stopped thinking about him.

      Her own predicament came swamping over her again and she began to feel a great desolation of the spirit. She had begged her parents and her friends not to come to the ship, not to see her off at all and already it seemed a long time ago that she had said goodbye to them. She felt very much alone.

      The cabin was without personality. Jemima heard voices and the hollow sounds of footsteps on the deck overhead. She smelt the inward rubbery smell of a ship. How was she to support five weeks of the woman with the pin-heels and the couple with Clapham Common voices and that incredibly forbidding spinster? She unpacked the luggage which was already in her cabin. Dennis looked in and she thought him quite frightful. Then she took herself to task for being bloody-minded and beastly. At that moment she found in her cabin-trunk a parcel from a wonderful shop with a very smart dress in it and a message from her mother and at this discovery she sat down on her bunk and cried like a small girl.

      By the time she had got over that and finished her unpacking she was suddenly quite desperately tired and went to bed.

      Jemima lay in her bed and listened to the sounds of the ship and the port. Gradually the cabin acquired an air of being her own and somewhere at the back of all the wretchedness there stirred a very slight feeling of anticipation. She heard a pleasant voice saying again: ‘You don’t sound as excited as I would have expected,’ and then she was so sound asleep that she didn’t hear the ship sail and was only very vaguely conscious of the fog signal, booming at two-minute intervals all night.

      By half past twelve all the passengers were in bed, even Mrs Dillington-Blick who had given her face a terrific workout with a new and complicated beauty treatment.

      The officers of the watch went about their appointed ways and the Cape Farewell, sailing dead slow, moved out of the Thames estuary with a murderer on board.

       II

      Captain Jasper Bannerman stood on the bridge with the pilot. He would be up all night. Their job was an ancient one and though they had radar and wireless to serve them, their thoughts as they peered into the blank shiftiness of the fog were those of their remote predecessors. An emergency warning come through with its procession of immemorial names – Dogger, Dungeness, Outer Hebrides, Scapa Flow, Portland Bill and the Goodwin Sands. ‘She’s a corker,’ said the pilot alluding to the fog. ‘Proper job, she’s making of it.’

      The voices of invisible shipping, hollow and desolate, sounded at uneven distances. Time passed very slowly.

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