“We've nothing settled yet, save a visit to Arbuckle's place. I've all the time in the world, for I'm semi-retired, and what business I need to do can be done by cable for a few months.”
“Miss Oliphant, why don't you come and visit, too?” Gloria said impulsively. “I'm sure Poppa would be happy to have you.”
“Why, that is very kind of you, my dear! It is true I have no definite plans. Perhaps a few days ⦠But I should not wish to impose ⦔
“Do say yes,” Gotobed urged heartily. “It'll give you a chance to find your feet. Arbuckle won't mind; he's a hospitable sort of bloke.”
“He certainly is,” Daisy confirmed. After all, her commissions from her editors and Alec's invitation to Washington all stemmed from Arbuckle's determination to have them go to stay at his “little country place.”
“If Mr. Arbuckle chooses to repeat the invitation,” said Miss Oliphant, a trifle flushed, “when he is feeling quite well again, then I shall be happy to accept.”
“Jolly good,” said Phillip.
The steward brought their sweets, balancing his full tray with ease as he crossed the room. However, instead of circling the table as usual to place each dish before its orderer, he plunked the tray down at the end and passed out the bowls and plates. “Don't want to give anyone an earful,” he explained cheerfully. “There's a bit of a blow on.”
Savouring her
poire belle Hélène,
Daisy glanced around the Grand Salon. Their table was typicalâabout half the passengers had not turned up for lunch. The Purser and Chief Engineer headed their tables, but none of the sailing officers was present.
Lady Brenda was there, with Chester Riddman beside her, looking morose. Her new hair-do did not appear to have improved his temper. Daisy decided to try to catch her after lunch to ask what Denton had been wearing.
Their coffee came, sloshing about in the heavy-based mugs which had been substituted for cups and saucers. The steward offered liqueurs “on the house,” at the Purser's behest, as a tribute to those still on their feet.
“By Jove,” said Phillip, grinning, “if there's anything in what Miss Oliphant says, we'd better have
crème de menthe all
round to help us stay on our feet!”
“I am not at all certain that the alcohol does not nullify any benefit from the mint,” the witch said dryly. “However, none of you appears to need it.”
“Touch wood,” said Daisy, suiting action to the word. She
laughed. “All the same, I'll have some. What about you, Miss Oliphant?”
“I shall take a glass of Crabbe's Green Ginger Wine, if you have it, Steward. It is an excellent cordial, and who knows but that it may help in our present situation.”
Phillip and Gloria opted for
crème de menthe,
while Gotobed joined Miss Oliphant in requesting ginger wine.
“My mam used to make ginger-beer,” he reminisced. “There was always a crock brewing in the larder. She used to give it us for the collywobbles, from scrounging green apples like as not.”
“There you are,” said Miss Oliphant triumphantly. “Your mother was a herbalist in her way.”
Gotobed laughed. “So she was, think on! I'm a healthy man, but gin I fall ill, I'll come to you afore I trouble our good doctor.”
When they left the Grand Salon, Lady Brenda and Riddman were just receiving their coffee, so Daisy resigned herself to losing track of her quarry again.
Gotobed walked beside her. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, in perfect King's English, “I hate to trouble you, but might I ask you to drop in to see Wanda? I understand why she doesn't want to see me, or rather, doesn't want me to see her, but I'm troubled in my mind as to whether her maid is doing all that can be done for her comfort.”
“Of course I'll go. She may refuse to see me, too, but if not I'll try to persuade her at least to try some mint tea. Or ginger-beer might go down better.”
“Very likely.” He lowered his voice, a touch of Yorkshire creeping in again. “I'm afraid she's taken agin Miss O. I dare say it wouldn't do for the three of us to do a bit of travelling together. A great shame. Miss O. is an interesting lady.”
“Isn't she,” Daisy agreed.
“If you want to find me afterwards, I shall very likely be
up on deck, smoking a pipe. You won't want to go out, but you can send a deck steward to fetch me.”
“Right-oh.”
They reached the door, where Miss Oliphant was waiting. “Mrs. Fletcher, if you would like to come with me now, I shall give you some mint for your husband,” she offered.
“Yes, please.” Daisy smiled at Gotobed, and she and the witch started towards the companion-way. “Mr. Gotobed has asked me to pop in to see Wanda. He's afraid the maid may not be taking proper care of her. Would you mind if I managed to persuade her to drink some mint tea, too?”
“Not at all. I have plenty. He is a dear man,” she added, so low Daisy only just made out the words and was not sure whether she was intended to hear or not. “That creature does not deserve him.”
Wanda had not hidden her dislike of Miss Oliphant. Obviously, the feeling was reciprocated.
Daisy did not enter Miss Oliphant's cabin, as one of the women sharing it was laid low in her bunk. However, though she did not see them this time, she recalled with unease the red labels on certain of the array of vials and jars in the teak chest. Had the envelope the witch handed to her not contained enough crushed leaves for both patients, Daisy would have thought twice before giving any to Wanda.
W
ith the envelope of mint leaves tucked in her handbag, Daisy decided to dash up to the promenade deck to see if she could catch Brenda before ministering to Alec and Wanda. She was in luck. The girl was just coming out of the Grand Salon, alone and disconsolate.
She brightened when she saw Daisy. “Hullo! You're not busy, are you? There's nothing to do.”
Daisy thought of Wanda to be checked on, Alec to be coaxed from his bed, the neglected work which justified her presence aboard, the concert she wanted to attend later that afternoon. But she also wanted to talk to Brenda. It seemed unlikely that Denton's clothes were relevant, but they might be a vital detail. One simply could not be sure.
“Not just now,” she said. “Where's Mr. Riddman, Birdie? I saw him with you at lunch.”
“He's gone to the Smoking Room to smoke one of his beastly cigars.”
“Does he ever smoke a pipe?”
“No, Americans don't much. Chester says only fuddy-duddy old college professors smoke pipes. He's in a putrid mood,” she went on as they strolled aft past rows of deserted
deck-chairs, balancing automatically as the ship rolled and pitched. “He lost pots of money yesterday afternoon.”
“At poker?”
“Mostly, and he paid a fortune for a number in the mileage pool, which didn't win. He was sure he'd win back last night what he'd lost earlier, but one of the chaps he's been playing with didn't turn up, and the other oneâhe'd lost, tooâwas so nervy he couldn't sit still. So they only played a couple of hands. Chester won both of them, but he's still down by a lot and both men told him they weren't going to play this afternoon.”
“They sound to me like a pair of sharps trying to whet his appetite.”
“Oh no, he knows they're honest. At least, one of them found his wallet lying on the quay and brought it back to him, and he hasn't tried to cash his cheques with the Purser. He said he'd hold them till we get to New York if Chester didn't win the money back. And the other one loses as often as Chester does. Besides, Chester doesn't need his appetite whetted. He spends all his time in his cabin playing, never thinks about anything else.”
“Is that what you were going to tell me earlier,” Daisy asked, “that Chester's become a gambler?”
Brenda nodded, tears in her eyes. “At first it was fun. We played chemmy and roulette. He staked me, and we won a bit and lost a bit, never much. Then he started playing poker. He'd played at Yale, only not with the high-rollersâthat's what they call people who make big betsâbecause his grandfather's against gambling and kept him on a tight rein.”
“I suppose he had plenty of money available in England as he was travelling?”
“Yes, and he kept losing, and he was more and more worried about what his grandfather would say, and less and less interested in me, and he kept hoping his luck would change.”
“The slippery slope,” said Daisy. “Can't you just give him the push? I mean, I know your family needs the money, but money isn't everything.”
Dropping onto the nearest chair, Brenda pulled out a handkerchief and sniffled into it. “I tried. One night when he was being particularly beastly, I gave him back his ring. He just grabbed my hand, and pushed the ring back onto my finger, and told me not to be silly because his grandfather would be simply livid with him if he went back without me and he was in enough hot water over the money already. I told Mumsie, and she was simply livid with
me
. She said we couldn't afford to look a gift horse in the mouth; I simply had to stick with it.”
“Oh dear,” Daisy murmured, unheard.
“And next day Chester came round and said he'd reconsidered and I was right, we shouldn't get married, and Mumsie threatened him with a breach-of-promise suit!”
“Oh Lord, so there you are, stuck in the middle. How frightful! Your mother's serious?”
“I think so. She was when we came aboard, but I haven't been able to talk to her since we left Liverpool. All she can think about is her poor tum.”
“So she doesn't know about ⦔ Daisy paused invitingly.
“About Ron Harvey? No.” Brenda suddenly took an extraordinary interest in her fingernails. “There's nothing to know.”
“You were up on the boat-deck with him last night when ⦔
“Don't remind me. I can still see it when I close my eyes.”
“What, as if it was a film in a cinema?” Daisy infused her voice with scepticism. “With all the details? I bet you can't even remember what Denton was wearing.”
“An overcoat and one of those old-fashioned hats,” Brenda said promptly. “The kind Daddy used to wear for
shooting. His hat must have fallen off when he fell, but I'm sure Ron will confirm the overcoat.”
“I dare say he'd back you up.”
“You mean he'd lie for me? He wouldn't. He's honest, sometimes devastatingly. You really think he cares enough to ⦠? But he hasn't any money!”
This Daisy met with silence.
“You don't know what it's like,” Brenda burst out, half indignant, half wretched, “growing up on a big estate with lots of servants and everything you want, and then suddenly the money's all gone.”
“Oh yes I do,” Daisy retorted. “That's exactly what happened to me. My brother was killed in the War, my father died of 'flu, and my cousin inherited the title and the estate.” She ignored Brenda's gasp. “Instead of doing the London season, I went out and found a job.”
“I didn't know your father was titled!”
“He was Viscount Dalrymple. But I met and married a wonderful man who happens to be middle class and to work for his living. And of whom, I must add, my mother strongly disapproves. Are you in love with Mr. Harvey?”
“I ⦠I'm not sure. I've only known him a couple of days,” Brenda protested plaintively.
“It is early days,” Daisy conceded. “Though I knew right away that Alec was something special.”
“Ron is something special. But I don't want to be poor!”
“I'm sure the second mate of a ship like this earns enough to feed a family.” And maybe he already had a family to feed, Daisy thought in alarm. Everyone had heard of sailors with a wife in every port. Too frightful if she encouraged Brenda into the arms of a bigamist! “Oh well, sorry, Birdie, it's none of my business. I'm afraid I'm going to have to desert you. I promised to look in on Mrs. Gotobed.”
“Do you know where Mr. and Mrs. Petrie are?”
“Probably trying to persuade one of the deck stewards to set up some strenuous game.”
“Oh. Oh well, maybe it would be fun,” said Brenda dubiously.
“I'll see if I can find them.”
Alec was right, Daisy acknowledged penitently as she went back below. She was a fearful meddler. Just because her situation had certain parallels with Brenda's, it did not follow that a happy ending on the same lines was possible. Whatever Harvey's marital status, his and Brenda's present feelings could well be no more than a brief infatuation, one of those fabled shipboard romances.
On the other hand, very likely Chester Riddman was also going through a temporary aberration, from which would emerge the charming and fun-loving man Brenda had wanted to marry. Alternatively, his grandfather might cut him off with the proverbial shillingâor American equivalentâbecause of his gambling, in which case Lady Wilmington would surely veto the wedding.
At least, Daisy told herself with a sigh, perhaps she had made Brenda think twice about whining over her fate while doing nothing to change it.
Unenthusiastically, she knocked on the door of the Gotobeds' sitting room. The maid opened it. A dumpy, pudgy-faced woman of about forty, Baines was dressed in black, with mousy hair pulled back into an unbecoming bun. Daisy wondered if Wanda had chosen her deliberately for her lack of feminine attractions.
On top of her everyday plainness, the maid looked exhausted. She blinked at Daisy, squinching her eyes. “Yes?”
“I'm Mrs. Fletcher. I've come to see Mrs. Gotobed.”
“Oh, but she won't ⦔
“Perhaps you'd like to lie down for half an hour,” Daisy suggested, “while I sit with her?”
Baines seized her chance. “Thank you, madam!” she exclaimed, already in motion.
Daisy stepped in, feeling a bit awkward at not having been announced. She went to tap on the half-open bedroom door.
“Go away, Dickie!” Wanda said pettishly. “I'm not fit to be seen.”
“It's Daisy, Daisy Fletcher.” She advanced into the gloomy room. The brocade curtains were drawn at the fake windows. A multicoloured glow from the Tiffany bedside lamp gleamed on a vast array of giltâsolid gold?âtopped bottles and jars on the dressing-table. It dimly illuminated the huddled figure curled in a pose of misery on the double bed. “Mr. Gotobed asked me to make sure your maid is taking good care of you. He's worried about you.”
“Poor Dickie-bird. I'm not being much of a bride to him, am I? But I can't bear for him to see me not looking my best.”
“I should think you could quite safely let him come in here,” Daisy said dryly, sitting down on a chaise longue as she had not yet been asked to leave. “What little I can see of you looks more like the Pied Piper than anything else.”
“What's he, when he's at home?”
“The Pied Piper? A character in a poem, sort of like a pantomime Harlequin.”
“Oh, him. It's the light. They're ever so expensive, that kind.”
“You could always turn it off and let him come and hold your hand for a while.”
Wanda groaned. “Well, if you want the truth, he makes me feel worse. He's so bloody healthy, I can't stand it, feeling so poorly like I do.”
“I'm sorry you're having such a hard time of it. Miss Oliphant has sent one of her remedies for you, if you'd like to try it.
“That quack! Anyone can see what
she
's up to.”
“Up to?”
“On the catch for Mr. Arbuckle, isn't she?”
“Surely not!” Daisy exclaimed, startled.
“An old maid like that? What else'd she waste her money crossing the sea for? You can tell she hasn't got any to spare. Take my word for it, Daisy, I know what I'm talking about. Me, I can spot 'em a mile off.”
Being one yourself, Daisy thought unkindly. She didn't believe it of the witch though. “All the same,” she said, “it can't hurt to try her mint tea.”
“Not bloody likely! I bet she'd like to poison me so there're two millionaires free.”
“I'd have thought one was enough for any woman.”
Wanda was oblivious to irony. “Give her a choice, wouldn't it? Not that she's got a hope, looking like what she does. Still, you better warn Gloria to watch out or her inheritance' ll go down the drain.”
“I don't believe Miss Oliphant is looking for a husband,” Daisy declared, “and supposing Mr. Arbuckle did take a liking to her and she agreed to marry him, I don't believe he'd cut Gloria out of his will. I sincerely hope you won't pass on such bosh to Gloria. Or anyone else, for that matter. Now, if you won't try the mint tea, is there anything else I can do for you? Is Baines taking good care of you?”
“I suppose so,” Wanda said grudgingly. “Nothing she does makes me feel any better.”
“There doesn't seem to be much one can do.”
“It's helped you coming and talking to me though. It's ever so kind of you, reelly. Gives a girl something else to think about than her insides. That reminds me, Dickie said you saw that man falling overboard last night. Tell me about it, do.”
Daisy disliked the avid curiosity in her voice, but she had to find something to talk about until Baines returned, so she described what she had seen.
“I didn't stay to watch them pull him out. I was coping with the hysterical girl, remember.” She did not report the hysterical girl's story. “Alec said they lowered the life-boat pretty smartly and pulled the chap in easily enough.”
“Did he say how he came to fall?”
“No; he was half drowned and he's still too ill to talk. He must have had a dizzy spell, I suppose.”
“I bet that's it.” Wanda sounded relieved, as if she had imagined there might be a madman on the loose, chucking people overboard right, left, and centreâor starboard, port, and amidships. “Poor bloke. Is he going to be all right?”
“It's still touch and go, I gather.” Daisy was glad to hear the latch of the outer door click. “Well, I'd better be on my way. Alec has succumbed, too. I must go and soothe his fevered brow, or at least attempt to pour some mint tea into him. Cheerio, Wanda. I hope you feel better soon.”