"Well, sir," said Ralph Peel. "I'm sorry to be the first to tell you that Mr. Philips is dead. He was drowned about an hour ago, trying to rescue a passenger who went overboard."
Sir Peregrine stared at Ralph Peel with his mouth slightly open and his tongue tucked in his cheek. Then he said, "Drowned?"
"Yes, sir."
"I see. Well... that's most regrettable. That's really quite tragic. The poor fellow never quite managed to get things right, did he? What with running down that Irishman off Dun Laoghaire, and all that strange business during the storm. Which reminds me. I thought you were supposed to be confined to your quarters for insubordination."
"I, er—to well, I was, sir. But Mr Deacon said that—"
"Deacon, yes." Sir Peregrine nodded. Then, "Have you found Mr. Philips' body yet? Made a search, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir. But no sign of him. He must have gone down like a sack of coal."
"I see. Sack of coal. That sounds like him. Sort of thing Philips would do. Was the passenger rescued?"
"Yes, sir. Miss Marcia Conroy, travelling with Mr. Mark Beeney."
At that moment, the door to the wheelhouse opened, and George Welterman appeared. "Mr Peel?" he said harshly. "We've slowed down! Now why the devil have we slowed down?"
Sir Peregrine turned around, and it was only then that George Welterman realised he was there. He blinked and coughed loudly, but he seemed to be incapable of speech.
Sir Peregrine said, "Did my ears deceive me, sir, or did you just address an inquiry to my third officer about the vessel's forward speed?"
George wasn't put off for very long. "Mr. Deacon promised that he was going to run the ship as fast as possible to make up for lost time," he blustered. "He promised me that personally."
"Oh, did he?" said Sir Peregrine. In spite of his weak and dangling arm, he looked the picture of nautical elegance. "Well, I regret that as captain of the Arcadia I have just countermanded that instruction, and I promise you, equally personally, that if you attempt to barge into this wheelhouse again, or anywhere else on this ship which is out of bounds to passengers, then I will have you locked up in your stateroom until we reach New York, for your own safety, of course. I may even instruct your steward to forget to bring you your meals."
Without waiting for an answer, Sir Peregrine turned his back on George Welterman and addressed himself to the Atlantic chart that was spread out on the navigation table. George was congested with fury; but his temper had already done him enough harm on this voyage, and he controlled himself with an effort of will that made his neck swell over his collar, like pink raspberry sponge bulging over the top of a white ramekin.
When George had marched off along the boat deck, Sir Peregrine said to Ralph Peel, "If that man ever speaks to you again on any subject apart from women, fishing, or the price of a weekend in Ostend, you may feign total deafness."
"Yes, sir," said Ralph, rather shaken.
The brass ship's chronometer read twelve noon.
Henry Pakenow was on the forward boat deck. He stayed as near to number one lifeboat as he could, smoking nervously and waiting for the dull internal thunder that would tell him that his dynamite had gone off. He had seen Lucille in the Palm Court during elevenses, although he had been unable to join her because Mrs. Hall had made quite sure that she and her young charge shared a table for two, in the corner. Since then, Harry had tried to keep his eye on Lucille wherever she strolled, but it wasn't easy to follow her around without appearing to be bothersome, and a few minutes before twelve Mrs. Hall had ushered her inside to dress for luncheon. There was little that Harry could do, except pray that somebody would have the sense a put a life jacket on her, and lead her to the boats.
At one minute to twelve, the Palm Court orchestra was playing "Can You Toddle Like A Tiger Toddles?" which Harry considered to be a suitable requiem for the most insensitive, hedonistic, and spendthrift generation ever. The Great War had taught them nothing: but this would. Just as the sinking of the Titanic had irrevocably crippled the Edwardian principles of wealth and class, so the sinking of the Arcadia would help to destroy the fatuous speeded-up world of champagne and jazz and privileged young sheiks. They would know for certain that they couldn't dance on the graves of working-class heroes any longer.
Twelve. The gilded clock in the great first-class stairway began to chime Gregorius. Harry gripped the rail and waited for the explosion. When a whole minute passed and it didn't come, he wasn't actually surprised. The clock that Dennis had built into the timing mechanism had only cost one-and-eleven, from Bumfrey's, in Runcorn High Street. Communist revolutionaries couldn't afford chronometers. But as time passed and the Arcadia continued to sail unharmed into the midday sunlight, her wires humming like a Gregorian choir as the wind blew through them, Harry began to wonder if something might have gone wrong. He stepped quickly across the boat deck to where the fifth officer, Derek Holdsworth, was chatting sociably with Hon. Constance Pruitt, and said, "Do you know what the time is, please? My watch seems to have stopped."
Derek Holdsworth took out his pocket watch and said, "Five minutes past twelve, exactly, Mr Pakemoff."
The Hon. Constance Pruitt, a very pretty brunette whose prettiness was somehow majestically enhanced by her squinting eyes, said, "I hope you're enjoying yourself, Mr Pakemoff. Wasn't that rescue exciting? And that poor officer! I cried when I heard!"
"Pakenow," Harry corrected her. Then he stared at her as if she was one of those dotty girls whom long-suffering aunts take out for the day from mental institutions, so that they can all sit tight-lipped in a tearoom and be suitably mortified by the poor creature's loud, peculiar conversation, and the way she drops meringue on her kilt.
Constance Pruitt wasn't to know that Harry couldn't even begin to comprehend the idea of enjoying himself, or of being excited by Marcia's rescue, not in these crucial minutes while he was waiting for his bomb to go off.
Derek Holdsworth, alert to the oddness of the moment, said, "You'll be looking forward to luncheon, I expect, Mr Pak-enow. It's'a special luncheon in honour of our Irish investors. I understand we'll be serving brill, flamed in Irish whiskey."
But without a word, Harry turned around and hurried aft towards the staircase. Halfway there, however, he thought, Supposing the bomb goes off when I'm below decks? I won't stand a chance. Maybe I should wait four or five more minutes. The Hon. Constance Pruitt was watching him as he suddenly paused, and she turned to Derek Holdsworth and remarked, "They're very strange, aren't they, the working class? I've never really seen them close up before. Oh, except for the servants, of course. They seem to be so agitated by something these days. Daddy says it's because they've forgotten their place. It was the war, he says. They all forgot their place."
"I think Mr. Pakenow's a reasonable enough sort," said Derek Holdsworth. Then, "Good afternoon, Lady Mussel. Good afternoon, Mrs. Chalk-Herbert."
Three minutes passed. Four. Two gentlemen in white flannels passed either side of Harry as they promenaded around the boat deck, as if he were nothing more than an ill-sited davit. One of them was saying, "It just goes to show you that the whole idea of pluck isn't dead yet, by any means." They must have been talking about Rudyard Philips.
Harry knew now that his bomb wasn't going to work. More slowly, he made his way to the grand staircase and descended to the first-class lounge. One of the stewards came up to him with a luncheon menu tucked under his arm and said, "A cocktail, sir, before luncheon?"