Philip turned away, and began to walk quickly along the promenade deck towards the staircase.
Catriona nearly called after him; but then she didn't. He had probably had enough agony for one afternoon. She sat back in her deck chair and wondered what on earth she was going to say to Edgar Deacon.
She was frightened by what she had done, and yet excited, too. Perhaps the company would still collapse; perhaps George Welterman would still take it over. But at least it would have been done openly and bravely; and at least her father's misdeeds would have been confessed, so that they might be understood and forgiven.
She unfolded the two messages she had received from London. One was from Nigel, and it read: "Philip Carter-Helm is partner in Drago, Cox, & Carter-Helm, Shipping Insurers. Age twenty-nine or thirty as far as his secretary recalls. She thinks he was born Cheshire. Miss you madly. Love, N." The second message was from Millicent Furr, a girl she had known at school. It said, "Philip Stanley George Walmsley was born on February 2, 1895, at Winsford Nursing Home, Cheshire, and registered at Winsford by Isabella Mary Walmsley, spinster, and Stanley Everett Keys, marine engineer. Sounds intriguing! And when am I going to see you again and catch up on all the gossip? Hope the info's enough. Best, Millie."
She remembered her father saying, "Always such a tease, your Aunt Isabella," and wondering what he meant. Now she knew. She folded up the messages again, and then tore them into tiny pieces, and opened her hand so that the wind could blow them out over the Atlantic.
SIXTY-FOUR
Marcia Conroy had been watching Catriona and Philip from further along the deck. When Philip left, she was almost tempted to go and talk to Catriona. She wasn't sure why. Perhaps she wanted to reassure her that she didn't really blame her for what had happened. But then Catriona turned away, too, and disappeared inside, and Marcia decided that perhaps it wasn't quite the right moment anyway.
Marcia was allowed out now for a quarter of an hour twice a day, but although she didn't know it, Dr. Fields had asked Sir Peregrine to detail a crew member to keep a watchful eye on her, particularly when she went close to the rail. Dr. Fields believed that her suicidal mood was past; but he knew from experience that real suicides can be cunning, and that they frequently mislead their friends and relatives into thinking that all their difficulties are over, simply for the chance of being left alone again.
She felt melancholy, as a matter of fact, but not despairing. In her white cloche hat and her fur-trimmed afternoon coat, she looked like a mannequin, elegant, aloof, slightly world-weary. She had taken breakfast that morning, two lightly-scrambled eggs, and a cup of China tea, and a fig, and she surprised herself by thinking that she would enjoy doing something erotic.
She had already decided that she had inhaled enough fresh air when Sabran came back on deck, and leaned against the rail quite near her, aggressively posing in a tight black military-style jacket and flappy white silk trousers. He wore rope sandals, and his toenails were painted.
"You are looking sad," he said.
Marcia gave him a brief British smile.
"I too am down in the clumps."
"Dumps," she corrected him.
"Dumps?" he frowned. He lit a cigarette, and breathed smoke out of his nostrils. Marcia had the feeling that he would have blown it out of his ears as well if it had been possible. "That Baroness, she expects a slave, not a lover. Do I look like a slave? I am too spee-fee to be a slave."
"Yes," agreed Marcia, "I think you are."
"I will be a picture star, like Valentino, only many more women will swill at my feet."
"I think you mean swoon."
"Yes, very swoon. As swoon as I get to Hollywood, USA. Besides, I think you are hotsy-totsy."
"You do?" smiled Marcia.
"Please, do not misunderstand. I am not saying you are a pullover."
"I'm not," said Marcia, and found herself laughing for the first time in two days. "I'm not a pushover, either."
Quite unexpectedly, Sabran dropped to his knees and held her hand. "Please, I wish you would have a gin feez with me."
Marcia touched his cheek with her fingertips. His skin was smooth, quite soft. "All right," she agreed. "Let's go and have a gin feez."
"And then...?" asked Sabran.
"Oh, I don't know," said Marcia. "Let's just have the feez, and think about the after after."
SIXTY-FIVE
Edgar was having tea with George Welterman when Catriona appeared at his stateroom door. George rose from his seat and bowed and said, "Well, well. The Queen of the Atlantic, in person."
Catriona allowed him to kiss her hand. Then she sat down and took off her hat and said lightly, "Don't let me interrupt you, please."
"We were simply going over the inventory," said Edgar. "George wants to know exactly what he's going to be getting for his eighteen million. It runs into three hundred seventy pages—from the Arcadia herself, to three hundred stokers' shovels."
"I see," said Catriona. "No, no tea for me, thank you. I'd rather have a drink."
"Always hard for me to consider drinking before the sun goes down past the yardarm," said Edgar. "Old Anglo-Indian custom, of course. Only way we could keep a check on chaps who would have drunk all day, morning till night." He sucked in his cheeks and then said, "Lot of them still did, of course."
George said, "Edgar's very pleased that you decided to see things his way, Catriona."
"Hm," said Catriona, trying to sound disinterested and vague; but she listened closely as Edgar and George worked out between them how their lawyers could meet as soon as the Arcadia docked in New York; and how IMM's accountants could go through the books in a matter of days; so that Keys could be transferred to IMM's British holding company as quickly as possible.
"How many of our executive staff will you be retaining, do you think?" asked Catriona. "Mr. Deacon here, I hope?"
George stood up and smiled and put his arm round Edgar's shoulders. "Mr. Deacon will get the reward he was promised, the deputy managing directorship of all of IMM's British operations. And he deserves it, too. As soon as your poor father died, he acted promptly and properly; and believe me he's going to save us all a great deal of money and legal difficulty." He winked at Catriona to make it clear he was talking about the Orange.
"What about Mr. Fearson?"
"Well... you have to admit that Percy's getting a little long in the tooth. It isn't going to be easy to find a place for him. But, I'm sure we can come to some arrangement."
"And me?"
"You, Miss Keys?" Edgar laughed crisply. "You will be able to go back to London and play with your theatre folk."
SIXTY-SIX
After dinner that evening, she sat with Mark in the cocktail lounge while a somnambulent pianist played slowed-down selections from the show Big Boy, including "If You Knew Susie". Catriona wore a shimmering Poiret dress like a silver waterfall, and a glittering headband with a silver-sparkling plume in it. They drank the special cocktail of the evening, Atlantic Punch.