CHAPTER IX

_(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)_

It is most undignified for a heroine to be sea-sick. In books the

more it rolls and tosses, the better she likes it. When everybody

else is ill, she alone staggers along the deck, braving the elements

and positively rejoicing in the storm. I regret to say that at the

first roll the _Kilmorden_ gave, I turned pale and hastened below.

A sympathetic stewardess received me. She suggested dry toast and

ginger ale.

I remained groaning in my cabin for three days. Forgotten was my

quest. I had no longer any interest in solving mysteries. I was a

totally different Anne to the one who had rushed back to the South

Kensington square so jubilantly from the shipping office.

I smile now as I remember my abrupt entry into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Flemming was alone there. She turned her head as I entered.

“Is that you, Anne, my dear? There is something I want to talk over

with you.”

“Yes?” I said, curbing my impatience.

“Miss Emery is leaving me.” Miss Emery was the governness. “As you

have not yet succeeded in finding anything, I wondered if you would

care—it would be so nice if you remained with us altogether?”

I was touched. She didn’t want me, I knew. It was sheer Christian

charity that prompted the offer. I felt remorseful for my secret

criticism of her. Getting up, I ran impulsively across the room

and flung my arms round her neck.

“You’re a dear,” I said. “A dear, a dear, a dear! And thank you

ever so much. But it’s all right, I’m off to South Africa on

Saturday.”

My abrupt onslaught had startled the good lady. She was not used

to sudden demonstrations of affection. My words startled her still

more.

“To South Africa? My dear Anne. We would have to look into anything

of that kind very carefully.”

That was the last thing I wanted. I explained that I had already

taken my passage, and that upon arrival I proposed to take up the

duties of a parlourmaid. It was the only thing I could think of on

the spur of the moment. There was, I said, a great demand for

parlourmaids in South Africa. I assured her that I was equal to

taking care of myself, and in the end, with a sigh of relief at

getting me off her hands, she accepted the project without further

query. At parting, she slipped an envelope into my hand. Inside it

I found five new crisp five-pound notes and the words: “I hope you

will not be offended and will accept this with my love.” She was

a very good, kind woman. I could not have continued to live in the

same house with her, but I did recognize her intrinsic worth.

So here I was, with twenty-five pounds in my pocket, facing the

world and pursuing my adventure.

It was on the fourth day that the stewardess finally urged me up

on deck. Under the impression that I should die quicker below, I

had steadfastly refused to leave my bunk. She now tempted me with

the advent of Madeira. Hope rose in my breast. I could leave the

boat and go ashore and be a parlourmaid there. Anything for dry

land.

Muffled in coats and rugs, and weak as a kitten on my legs, I was

hauled up and deposited, an inert mass, on a deck-chair. I lay

there with my eyes closed, hating life. The purser, a fair-haired

young man, with a round boyish face, came and sat down beside me.

“Hullo! Feeling rather sorry for yourself, eh?”

“Yes,” I replied, hating him.

“Ah, you won’t know yourself in another day or two. We’ve had

rather a nasty dusting in the Bay, but there’s smooth weather

ahead. I’ll be taking you on at quoits to-morrow.”

I did not reply.

“Think you’ll never recover, eh? But I’ve seen people much worse

than you, and two days later they were the life and soul of the

ship. You’ll be the same.”

I did not feel sufficiently pugnacious to tell him outright that

he was a liar. I endeavoured to convey it by a glance. He chatted

pleasantly for a few minutes more, then he mercifully departed.

People passed and repassed, brisk couples “exercising,” curveting

children, laughing young people. A few other pallid sufferers lay,

like myself, in deck-chairs.

The air was pleasant, crisp, not too cold, and the sun was shining

brightly. Insensibly, I felt a little cheered. I began to watch

the people. One woman in particular attracted me. She was about

thirty, of medium height and very fair with a round dimpled face

and very blue eyes. Her clothes, though perfectly plain, had that

indefinable air of “cut” about them which spoke of Paris. Also, in

a pleasant but self-possessed way, she seemed to own the ship!

Deck stewards ran to and fro obeying her commands. She had a

special deck-chair, and an apparently inexhaustible supply of

cushions. She changed her mind three times as to where she would

like it placed. Throughout everything she remained attractive and

charming. She appeared to be one of those rare people in the world

who know what they want, see that they get it, and manage to do so

without being offensive. I decided that if I ever recovered—but of

course I shouldn’t—it would amuse me to talk to her.

We reached Madeira about midday. I was still too inert to move,

but I enjoyed the picturesque-looking merchants who came on board

and spread their merchandise about the decks. There were flowers

too. I buried my nose in an enormous bunch of sweet wet violets

and felt distinctly better. In fact, I thought I might just possibly

last out the end of the voyage. When my stewardess spoke of the

attractions of a little chicken broth, I only protested feebly.

When it came I enjoyed it.

My attractive woman had been ashore. She came back escorted by a

tall, soldierly-looking man with dark hair and a bronzed face whom

I had noticed striding up and down the deck earlier in the day. I

put him down at once as one of the strong, silent men of Rhodesia.

He was about forty, with a touch of greying hair at either temple,

and was easily the best-looking man on board.

When the stewardess brought me up an extra rug I asked her if she

knew who my attractive woman was.

“That’s a well-known society lady, the Hon. Mrs. Clarence Blair.

You must have read about her in the papers.”

I nodded, looking at her with renewed interest. Mrs. Blair was very

well known indeed as one of the smartest women of the day. I

observed, with some amusement, that she was the centre of a good

deal of attention. Several people essayed to scrape acquaintance

with the pleasant informality that a boat allows. I admired the

polite way that Mrs. Blair snubbed them. She appeared to have

adopted the strong, silent man as her special cavalier, and he

seemed duly sensible of the privilege accorded him.

The following morning, to my surprise, after taking a few turns

round the deck with her attentive companion, Mrs. Blair came to a

halt by my chair.

“Feeling better this morning?”

I thanked her, and said I felt slightly more like a human being.

“You did look ill yesterday. Colonel Race and I decided that we

should have the excitement of a funeral at sea—but you’ve

disappointed us.”

I laughed.

“Being up in the air has done me good.”

“Nothing like fresh air,” said Colonel Race, smiling.

“Being shut up in those stuffy cabins would kill any one,” declared

Mrs. Blair, dropping into a seat by my side and dismissing her

companion with a little nod. “You’ve got an outside one, I hope?”

I shook my head.

“My dear girl! Why don’t you change? There’s plenty of room. A lot

of people got off at Madeira, and the boat’s very empty. Talk to

the purser about it. He’s a nice little boy—he changed me into a

beautiful cabin because I didn’t care for the one I’d got. You talk

to him at lunch-time when you go down.”

I shuddered.

“I couldn’t move.”

“Don’t be silly. Come and take a walk now with me.”

She dimpled at me encouragingly. I felt very weak on my legs at

first, but as we walked briskly up and down I began to feel a

brighter and better being.

After a turn or two, Colonel Race joined us again.

“You can see the Grand Peak of Tenerife from the other side.”

“Can we? Can I get a photograph of it, do you think?”

“No—but that won’t deter you from snapping off at it.”

Mrs. Blair laughed.

“You are unkind. Some of my photographs are very good.”

“About three per cent effective, I should say.”

We all went round to the other side of the deck. There glimmering

white and snowy, enveloped in a delicate rose-coloured mist, rose

the glistening pinnacle. I uttered an exclamation of delight. Mrs.

Blair ran for her camera.

Undeterred by Colonel Race’s sardonic comments, she snapped

vigorously:

“There, that’s the end of the roll. Oh,” her tone changed to one

of chagrin, “I’ve had the thing at ‘bulb’ all the time.”

“I always like to see a child with a new toy,” murmured the Colonel.

“How horrid you are—but I’ve got another roll.”

She produced it in triumph from the pocket of her sweater. A sudden

roll of the boat upset her balance, and as she caught at the rail

to steady herself the roll of films flashed over the side.

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Blair, comically dismayed. She leaned over. “Do

you think they have gone overboard?”

“No, you may have been fortunate enough to brain an unlucky steward

in the deck below.”

A small boy who had arrived unobserved a few paces to our rear blew

a deafening blast on a bugle.

“Lunch,” declared Mrs. Blair ecstatically. “I’ve had nothing to

eat since breakfast, except two cups of beef-tea. Lunch, Miss

Beddingfeld?”

“Well,” I said waveringly. “Yes, I _do_ feel rather hungry.”

“Splendid. You’re sitting at the purser’s table, I know. Tackle

him about the cabin.”

I found my way down to the saloon, began to eat gingerly, and

finished by consuming an enormous meal. My friend of yesterday

congratulated me on my recovery. Every one was changing cabins

to-day, he told me, and he promised that my things should be moved

to an outside one without delay.

There were only four at our table, myself, a couple of elderly

ladies, and a missionary who talked a lot about “our poor black

brothers.”

I looked round at the other tables. Mrs. Blair was sitting at the

Captain’s table, Colonel Race next to her. On the other side of

the Captain was a distinguished-looking, grey-haired man. A good

many people I had already noticed on deck, but there was one man

who had not previously appeared. Had he done so, he could hardly

have escaped my notice. He was tall and dark, and had such a

peculiarly sinister type of countenance that I was quite startled.

I asked the purser, with some curiosity, who he was.

“That man? Oh, that’s Sir Eustace Pedler’s secretary. Been very

sea-sick, poor chap, and not appeared before. Sir Eustace has got

two secretaries with him, and the sea’s been too much for both of

them. The other fellow hasn’t turned up yet. This man’s name is

Pagett.”

So Sir Eustace Pedler, the owner of the Mill House, was on board.

Probably only a coincidence, and yet——

“That’s Sir Eustace,” my informant continued, “sitting next to the

Captain. Pompous old ass.”

The more I studied the secretary’s face, the less I liked it. Its

even pallor, the secretive, heavy-lidded eyes, the curiously

flattened head—it all gave me a feeling of distaste, of apprehension.

Leaving the saloon at the same time as he did, I was close behind

him as he went up on deck. He was speaking to Sir Eustace, and I

overheard a fragment or two. “I’ll see about the cabin at once

then, shall I? It’s impossible to work in yours, with all your

trunks.”

“My dear fellow,” Sir Eustace replied. “My cabin is intended (a)

for me to sleep in, and (b) to attempt to dress in. I never had

any intentions of allowing you to sprawl about the place making an

infernal clicking with that typewriter of yours.”

“That’s just what I say, Sir Eustace, we must have somewhere to

work——”

Here I parted company from them, and went below to see if my

removal was in progress. I found my steward busy at the task.

“Very nice cabin, miss. On D deck. No. 13.”

“Oh, no!” I cried. “_Not_ 13.”

Thirteen is the one thing I am superstitious about. It was a nice

cabin too. I inspected it, wavered, but a foolish superstition

prevailed. I appealed almost tearfully to the steward.

“Isn’t there any other cabin I can have?”

The steward reflected.

“Well, there’s 17, just along on the starboard side. That was empty

this morning, but I rather fancy it’s been allotted to some one.

Still, as the gentleman’s things aren’t in yet, and as gentlemen

aren’t anything like so superstitious as ladies, I dare say he

wouldn’t mind changing.”

I hailed the proposition gratefully, and the steward departed to

obtain permission from the purser. He returned grinning.

“That’s all right, miss. We can go along.”

He led the way to 17. It was not quite as large as No. 13, but I

found it eminently satisfactory.

“I’ll fetch your things right away, miss,” said the steward.

But at that moment, the man with the sinister face (as I had

nicknamed him) appeared in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but this cabin is reserved for the use of

Sir Eustace Pedler.”

“That’s all right, sir,” explained the steward. “We’re fitting up

No. 13 instead.”

“No, it was No. 17 I was to have.”

“No. 13 is a better cabin, sir—larger.”

“I specially selected No. 17, and the purser said I could have it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said coldly. “But No. 17 has been allotted to me.”

“I can’t agree to that.”

The steward put in his oar.

“The other cabin’s just the same, only better.”

“I want No. 17.”

“What’s all this?” demanded a new voice. “Steward, put my things

in here. This is my cabin.”

It was my neighbor at lunch, the Rev. Edward Chichester.

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “It’s my cabin.”

“It is allotted to Sir Eustace Pedler,” said Mr. Pagett.

We were all getting rather heated.

“I’m sorry to have to dispute the matter,” said Chichester with a

meek smile which failed to mask his determination to get his own

way. Meek men are always obstinate, I have noticed.

He edged himself sideways into the doorway.

“You’re to have No. 28 on the port side,” said the steward. “A very

good cabin, sir.”

“I am afraid that I must insist. No. 17 was the cabin promised to

me.”

We had come to an impasse. Each one of us was determined not to

give way. Strictly speaking, I, at any rate, might have retired

from the contest and eased matters by offering to accept Cabin 28.

So long as I did not have 13 it was immaterial to me what other

cabin I had. But my blood was up. I had not the least intention of

being the first to give way. And I disliked Chichester. He had

false teeth which clicked when he ate. Many men have been hated

for less.

We all said the same things over again. The steward assured us,

even more strongly, that both the other cabins were better cabins.

None of us paid any attention to him.

Pagett began to lose his temper. Chichester kept his serenely. With

an effort I also kept mine. And still none of us would give way an

inch.

A wink and a whispered word from the steward gave me my cue. I

faded unobtrusively from the scene. I was lucky enough to encounter

the purser almost immediately.

“Oh, please,” I said, “you did say I could have Cabin 17? And the

others won’t go away. Mr. Chichester and Mr. Pagett. You _will_

let me have it, won’t you?”

I always say that there are no people like sailors for being nice

to women. My little purser came to the scratch splendidly. He

strode to the scene, informed the disputants that No. 17 was my

cabin, they could have Nos. 13 and 28 respectively or stay where

they were—whichever they chose.

I permitted my eyes to tell him what a hero he was and then

installed myself in my new domain. The encounter had done me worlds

of good. The sea was smooth, the weather growing daily warmer.

Sea-sickness was a thing of the past!

I went up on deck and was initiated into the mysteries of

deck-quoits. I entered my name for various sports. Tea was served

on deck, and I ate heartily. After tea, I played shovel-board with

some pleasant young men. They were extraordinarily nice to me. I

felt that life was satisfactory and delightful.

The dressing bugle came as a surprise and I hurried to my new

cabin. The stewardess was awaiting me with a troubled face.

“There’s a terrible smell in your cabin, miss. What it is, I’m sure

I can’t think, but I doubt if you’ll be able to sleep here. There’s

a deck cabin up on C deck, I believe. You might move into that—just

for the night, anyway.”

The smell really was pretty bad—quite nauseating. I told the

stewardess I would think over the question of moving whilst I

dressed. I hurried over my toilet, sniffing distastefully as I did

so.

What _was_ the smell? Dead rat? No, worse than that—and quite

different. Yet I knew it! It was something I had smelt before.

Something——Ah! I had got it. Asafœtida! I had worked in a Hospital

dispensary during the war for a short time and had become acquainted

with various nauseous drugs.

Asafœtida, that was it. But how——

I sank down on the sofa, suddenly realizing the thing. Somebody

had put a pinch of asafœtida in my cabin. Why? So that I should

vacate it? Why were they so anxious to get me out? I thought of

the scene this afternoon from a rather different point of view.

What was there about Cabin 17 that made so many people anxious to

get hold of it? The other two cabins were better cabins, why had

both men insisted on sticking to 17?

17. How the number persisted. It was on the 17th I had sailed from

Southampton. It was a 17—I stopped with a sudden gasp. Quickly I

unlocked my suit-case, and took my precious paper from its place

of concealment in some rolled stockings.

17 1 22—I had taken that for a date, the date of departure of the

_Kilmorden Castle._ Supposing I was wrong. When I came to think of

it, would any one, writing down a date, think it necessary to put

the year as well as the month? Supposing 17 meant _Cabin_ 17? And

1? The time—one o’clock. Then 22 must be the date. I looked up at

my little almanac.

To-morrow was the 22nd!