Edgar looked perplexed. "Did Trimmer say what the argument might have been about?"
"The Orange, as far as he knows. And something about insurance. But this was about two weeks before the Orange sank."
Edgar burst out laughing, but his laughter was so yapping and high that Catriona couldn't believe for a moment that he was at all amused.
She said, "What on earth's the matter?"
"It's just funny, that's all. It's just the type of gossip that Trimmer revels in. You mustn't take any notice at all. Scuttlebutt they call it on board ship."
"I just thought it was peculiar, that's all."
"My dear, I don't suppose for a moment that it was Philip Carter-Helm at all. Trimmer's half-blind these days, anyway. He ought to wear spectacles, except he's too proud. Had an Indian clerk like that once, in Calcutta. We used to call him Andha, that's Hindu for someone who can't see his nose in front of his face."
"It seems odd that Trimmer should have made it up."
"Oh, I don't know," said Edgar with forced joviality. "Servants are always trying to impress. It's not a serious vice. But, well, you should take what they say with a pinch of salt."
Catriona said, "My gosh, it's nearly a quarter to seven. I was supposed to meet George Welterman at six. I'd better go back and get Alice."
"Alice?"
"Well, to chaperone me."
Edgar waved his hand dismissively. "You won't need Alice. George is a perfect gentleman. At least, from what I've seen of him."
"Are you sure?"
"Why?" laughed Edgar. "You're not frightened, are you?"
"No, of course not. But you seem to think this is all so important; I want to do the right thing."
"You'll be doing the right thing if you simply make George feel that you and everybody else at Keys thinks he's a wonderful chap. Or at least a half-wonderful chap. I'm afraid he's one of these people who needs flattery, as well as persuasion. He's already put in his offer, of course; but he would quite enjoy seeing us dance for our supper, while we're about it."
Catriona narrowed her eyes and scrutinised Edgar as if she were an elderly lady on her first jury service.
"I always thought I knew who you were," she told him. 'Now, I'm beginning to wonder if you're someone else altogether."
"I was your father's friend, if that's what you mean. I still am."
"No, I didn't mean that," said Catriona.
"Then what?"
"I mean you seem rather frantic about this sale to IMM. Not calm and collected at all. Couldn't we string them along a bit, make them dance, instead of us? That's if they want us so badly."
Edgar shrugged and looked away, as if he were already thinking about something else. "It's business, I'm afraid. There are other considerations, apart from money. Obligations, contracts, that kind of thing. Now that your father's gone—"
Catriona said, rather archly, "Now that my father's gone, I'm here."
"Well, of course. But in a more decorative capacity, shall we say."
"I don't think twenty-five per cent of the voting stock is entirely decorative, do you? At least, nobody else seems to think so. I'm beginning to wonder whether all you men are clustering around me for my stunning looks or my ravishing shares."
"Miss Keys, really," Edgar protested, almost primly, as if she had accused him of behaving indecently in front of a lady.
"I just hope you're not selling out to IMM because you don't want Keys to be managed by women, that's all."
"My dear Miss Keys, there isn't any question at all that the board doubts your sincerity, or your devotion to your father's memory. But running a shipping line in Liverpool is not like organising a the dansant in South Kensington, especially when to all intents and purposes that shipping line is already bankrupt."
Catriona turned her face to the wind. "Very well," she said. She tried to sound both offended and forgiving at the same time; because in spite of everything she didn't want to fall out with Edgar, or upset him too much. "But I do reserve the right to see what I can get out of George Welterman. Perhaps I can get more than eighteen million pounds, just by being decorative."
"Hmph," returned Edgar, unimpressed.
He escorted her down to A Deck, however, where they happened to bump into Dick Charles. Edgar inclined his head to Catriona in a reserved little gesture of respect, and said to Dick: "Will you please take Miss Keys to Mr. Welterman's cabin, Mr. Charles, and also present him with my regards."
"V-v-v—certainly, Mr. Deacon."
Catriona, as they walked together along the corridor, couldn't help thinking that Dick Charles looked extremely white.
"Are you all right, Mr. Charles?" she asked him. "You're not ill, or anything?"
"N-no, Miss Keys. Tremendous f-form. F-first class."
"Well, I hope you don't think that I'm being rude, but you don't look first class. You look rather pale."
"J-just a couple of things on my mind, Miss Keys. N-nothing to get worried about."
"You can always talk to me, you know, if there's something upsetting you."
Dick Charles saluted her. "V-very k-kind of you, Miss K-keys."
He led her to the door of George Welterman's stateroom. Perhaps he wasn't a very good sailor, thought Catriona. After all, the crew were just as susceptible to seasickness as the passengers. She couldn't have guessed for a moment that his problem centred entirely around Lady Diana FitzPerry, and the corks of Perrier-Jouёt champagne, and Pond's cold cream.
George Welterman opened the door of his stateroom himself. The theme of the apartment was "Mount Olympus", and the walls were decorated with friezes of Roman gods, all with marcelled hairstyles and pointed beards, with sheaves of lightning bolts in their quivers.
George Welterman himself had all the dignity and darkness of Zeus. He was wrapped in a black and silver quilted robe, with an ostentatious silver cravat around his neck. Beneath the lower hem of his robe, Catriona could see the cuffs of his evening trousers, with silver-grey stockings and black silk slippers. Smoke from his cigarette drifted raggedly across the room towards the ventilator grille.
"Is this your chaperone?" he asked Catriona, nodding towards Dick Charles.
"No," she said. "Mr. Charles was just leaving."
"Mr. D-deacon sends you his f— sends you his f— sends you his felicitations, sir."
"So," smiled George when Dick Charles had left. "You decided it was safe to come alone." He tapped his cigarette in a stainless-steel ashtray.
"Is there any reason why I shouldn't have done?"
He made a self-deprecatory face, and bent forward to kiss her hand with dry lips. "There have been women," he said, "who have been afraid of being alone with me."
"Afraid? I can't think why. You're rather a teddy bear."
George let out a small explosion of amusement. "A teddy bear? That's the first time any woman has called me a teddy bear. Well, perhaps you'll learn otherwise."
"You intend to show me your claws?"
"Maybe. But let me pour you a drink first."
"All right,' said Catriona, turning away from him. "Gin and bitters. The way they make it in the crush bar at the Court."
"I can't say that I've ever been to the Court."
"You didn't see The Farmer's Wife? Well, perhaps you wouldn't have done, would you, being in Ireland. But you should have done. It was hilarious."
"You're quite a theatre person, aren't you?" asked George, opening up the black lacquered cocktail cabinet.
"I lived with an actor."
"I know," said George. He smiled in self-satisfaction as he half filled a modern Lausitzer glass with Gordon's gin. "Your father didn't approve of that, did he?"