Singing in the Shrouds. Ngaio Marsh
had listened to these complaints with an air of resignation; just not casting up his eyes.
‘Quite a chapter of accidents,’ he said when Mr Merryman paused. ‘Yerse. Well, we’ll see what we can do for you.’ He added: ‘Sir,’ but not in the manner required by Mr Merryman at his minor public school.
Mr Merryman said: ‘You will carry out my instructions immediately. I am going to take a short walk. When I return I shall expect to find it done.’ Dennis opened his mouth. Mr Merryman said: ‘That will do.’ Rather pointedly he then locked a case on his dressing-table and walked out of the cabin.
‘And I’ll take me oaf,’ Dennis muttered pettishly, ‘he’s TT into the bargain. What an old bee.’
Father Jourdain’s brother-priest had helped him to bestow his modest possessions about his room. This done they had looked at each other with the hesitant and slightly self-conscious manner of men who are about to take leave of each other.
‘Well – ’ they both said together and Father Jourdain added: ‘It was good of you to come all this way. I’ve been glad of your company.’
‘Have you?’ his colleague rejoined. ‘And I, needless to say, of yours.’ He hid his hands under his cloak and stood modestly before Father Jourdain. ‘The bus leaves at eleven,’ he said. ‘You’d like to settle down, I expect.’
Father Jourdain asked, smiling: ‘Is there something you want to say to me?’
‘Nothing of the smallest consequence. It’s just – well, I’ve suddenly realized how very much it’s meant to me having the great benefit of your example.’
‘My dear man!’
‘No, really! You strike me, Father, as being quite tremendously sufficient (under God and our Rule, of course) to yourself. All the brothers are a little in awe of you, did you know? I think we all feel that we know much less about you than we do about each other. Father Bernard said the other day that although ours is not a Silent Order you kept your own rule of spiritual silence.’
‘I don’t know that I am altogether delighted by Father Bernard’s aphorism.’
‘Aren’t you? He meant it awfully nicely. But I really do chatter much too much. I should take myself in hand and do something about it, I expect. Goodbye, Father. God bless you.’
‘And you, my dear fellow. But I’ll walk with you to the bus.’
‘No – please – ’
‘I should like to. ’
They had found their way down to the lower deck. Father Jourdain said a word to the sailor at the head of the gangway and both priests went ashore. The sailor watched them pace along the wharf towards the passageway at the far end of which the bus waited. In their black cloaks and hats they looked fantastic. The fog swirled about them as they walked. Half an hour had gone by before Father Jourdain returned alone. It was then a quarter past eleven.
Miss Abbott’s cabin was opposite Mrs Dillington-Blick’s. Dennis carried the suitcases to it. Their owner unpacked them with meticulous efficiency, laying folded garments away as if for some ceremonial robing. They were of a severe character. At the bottom of the second suitcase there was a stack of music in manuscript. In a pocket of the suitcase was the photograph. It was of a woman of about Miss Abbott’s own age, moderately handsome but with a heavy dissatisfied look. Miss Abbott stared at it and, fighting back a painful sense of desolation and resentment, sat on the bed and pressed clumsy hands between large knees. Time went by. The ship moved a little at her moorings. Miss Abbott heard Mrs Dillington-Blick’s rich laughter and was remotely and very slightly eased. There was the noise of fresh arrivals, of footsteps overhead and of dockside activities. From a more distant part of the passengers’ quarters came sounds of revelry and of a resonant male voice that was somehow familiar. Soon Miss Abbott was to know why. The cabin door had been hooked ajar so that when Mrs Dillington-Blick’s friend came into the passage she was very clearly audible. Mrs Dillington-Blick stood in her own open doorway and said through giggles: ‘Go on, then, I dare you,’ and the friend went creaking down the passage. She returned evidently in high excitement saying: ‘My dear, it is! He’s shaved it off! The steward told me. It’s Aubyn Dale! My dear, how perfectly gorgeous for you.’
There was another burst of giggling through which Mrs Dillington-Blick said something about not being able to wait for the tropics to wear her Jolyon swimsuit. Their further ejaculations were cut off by the shutting of their door.
‘Silly fools,’ Miss Abbott thought dully, having not the smallest interest in television personalities. Presently she began to wonder if she really would throw the photograph overboard when the ship was out at sea. Suppose she were to tear it up now and drop the pieces in the waste-paper basket? Or into the harbour? How lonely she would be then! The heavily-knuckled fingers drummed on the bony knees and their owner began to think about things going overboard into the harbour. The water would be cold and dirty: polluted by the excreta of ships: revolting!
‘Oh, God!’ Miss Abbott said, ‘how hellishly unhappy I am.’
Dennis knocked at her door.
‘Telegram, Miss Abbott,’ he fluted.
‘Telegram? For me? Yes?’
He unhooked the door and came in.
Miss Abbott took the telegram and shakily opened it. It fluttered between her fingers.
‘Darling Abbey so miserable do please write or if not too late telephone, F.’
Dennis had lingered. Miss Abbott said shakily: ‘Can I send an answer?’
‘Well – ye-ees. I mean to say – ’
‘Or telephone? Can I telephone?’
‘There’s a phone on board but I seen a queue lined up when I passed.’
‘How long before we sail?’
‘An hour, near enough, but the phone goes off earlier.’
Miss Abbott said distractedly: ‘It’s very important. Very urgent, indeed.’
‘ ’Tch, ’tch.’
‘Wait. Didn’t I see a call box on the dock? Near the place where the bus stopped?’
‘That’s correct,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Fancy you noticing!’
‘I’ve time to go off, haven’t I?’
‘Plenty of time, Miss Abbott. Oodles.’
‘I’ll do that. I’ll go at once.’
There’s coffee and sandwiches on in the dining-room.’
‘I don’t want them. I’ll go now.’
‘Cold outside. Proper freezer. Need a coat, Miss Abbott, won’t you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Oh, very well. Thank you.’
She took her coat out of the wardrobe, snatched up her handbag, and hurried out.
‘Straight ahead, down the companionway and turn right,’ he called after her and added: ‘Don’t get lost in the fog, now.’
Her manner had been so disturbed that it aroused his curiosity. He went out on the deck and was in time to see her running along the wharf into the fog. ‘Runs like a man,’ Dennis thought. ‘Well, it takes all sorts.’
Mr and Mrs Cuddy sat on their respective beds and eyed each other with the semi-jocular family air that they reserved for intimate occasions. The blowers on the bulkhead were pouring hot air into the cabin, the porthole was sealed, the luggage was stowed and the Cuddys were cosy.
‘All right so far,’ Mrs Cuddy said guardedly.
‘Satisfied, dear?’
‘Can’t complain. Seems clean.’