"I didn't notice them," whispered Catriona. "Maybe, if I had, I would have been more careful."
Mark licked his lips, as if they were very dry. "I'm going to say something now that I've only said once in my life before," he said. "It doesn't come easy and I'm not sure that it's not going to sound just as unconvincing to you as everything else I've been saying—"
"Mark—"
"No, please, let me finish. I don't want you to walk out of this door without realising that I've fallen in love with you."
Catriona swallowed. She felt as if she had dreamed all this before, as if her real life and her imaginary life had suddenly and unexpectedly converged. She could even remember the starry pattern on the carpet from some long-ago dream; and as the Arcadia rolled in the Atlantic swell, she thought to herself, that was why I felt in my dreams as if the whole world was tilting from side to side. Or, it could have been nothing more than tiredness, and too much champagne, and deja-vu.
"Did you hear what I said?" asked Mark.
Catriona said, "Yes, I heard you."
"Do you believe me?"
She blinked at him. "Didn't you think I would?"
He grinned, and shrugged, not sure how to answer that. Then he said, "You sure you won't come back and finish your champagne? I'm going to be very drunk if I empty that bottle all on my ownsome."
Catriona said, "You could always pour it into the sea. You might impress some lovely young mermaid."
Mark said, "I'll see you later, then. Sleep well."
"Yes," replied Catriona. "You too."
Ten minutes later, up on the bridge deck, outside the open door of his sitting-room, Sir Peregrine saw Mark Beeney emerge onto the first-class promenade in his shirtsleeves and his stockinged feet, carrying a bottle of champagne. The commodore watched in bewilderment as Mark leaned out over the rail, and emptied a splattering stream of champagne into the ocean. Then, Mark went inside again.
Sir Peregrine stared at the deserted deck for a long time. Then he looked down at the china cocoa-mug he was holding tightly in both hands. He could see the early morning sky reflected in it, and the dark outline of his captain's cap. He drained the mug to the bottom, and then pulled out a large white pocket handkerchief to dab at his lips.
He wondered if that damned pompous Philips would notice how strong his breath smelled if he just had one more. He certainly felt he needed it, if only to reassure himself that Philips was an incompetent idiot, and that if anybody had been run down and drowned by the Arcadia, it was plainly and unquestionably Philips" fault. Philips had been on the bridge at the time. Philips was responsible. A captain could hardly be expected to be in fifty-two different places at once, could he? And if his orders were flaunted—if a 53,000-ton ocean liner were piloted as recklessly as if it were a speedboat—then how could he possibly be blamed?
He opened the cupboard in his sitting-room and took out the bottle of white Haitian rum. It was already a third empty. He unscrewed the cap and filled the cocoa mug to the halfway mark. Just this one, and no more.
He stood in the centre of the room, drinking and thinking. He wondered briefly why-that fellow Mark Beeney had emptied a bottle of champagne into the sea. Damned eccentric, some of these Americans. Damned rum lot altogether.
There was a rapping at his door. He called, suspiciously, "Yes?" But it was only the wireless officer Willis with a message from the Meteorological Office.
"Well, what does it say?" demanded Sir Peregrine. "Read it to me."
"It says there's a possibility of severe weather in the early hours of tomorrow morning, sir. All that hurricane activity that was reported in the West Indies before we left—well, one of the most violent hurricanes has veered north-east at latitude twenty-seven degrees, sir, and it appears to have gathered forward speed. Could be rather a nasty one."
"I see," said Sir Peregrine.
He remained where he was, his eyes fixed for no reason at all on brass cabin hook which was used to hold back his sitting-room a door. At the moment it was loose, and it swung slowly backwards and forwards like a shining question mark.
"Are you all right, sir?" asked the wireless officer.
Sir Peregrine raised his head. "Mm?" he queried.
"I was wondering if you were quite yourself, sir."
"Ah, were you," said Sir Peregrine. "And if I were not myself, who did you suppose I might be?"
TWENTY-FOUR
At three minutes after seven on the morning of Wednesday, June 18th, the officer on the bridge was Ralph Peel. He was looking particularly sleek and pleased with himself this morning, although there was a slight puffiness around his eyes which attested to a night of champagne, more champagne, and several hours of strenuous copulation with Alison Cabot White, the Cape Cod heiress, who was gripped with what was now an even more deeply-rooted penchant for hairy men. God, she had tugged at Ralph Peel's hairy back until he had bellowed out loud, and woken up her mother! But it hadn't been the first time he had been obliged to nip smartly into a clothes closet in a first-class stateroom, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He had enjoyed himself thoroughly, and to prove it he kept whistling "Scotland The Brave" over and over until the helmsman was heartily sick of it.
Rudyard Philips was still in his quarters, not at all sure whether he was actually under arrest or not. He had called Mr. Deacon four times on the ship's internal telephone, but Edgar had taken his phone off the hook, and Rudyard's calls had been rewarded with nothing more than the monotonous beeping of the busy signal. Rudyard paced up and down the maroon carpet—seven feet one way, six feet the other. Then he sat down on the end of his mahogany bunk and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke up to the cream-painted ceiling. He felt fretful and anxious, and yet he wasn't certain whether he had any cause to feel fretful and anxious or not. Sir Peregrine had told him he was under arrest, but there was nobody at his door to ensure that he stayed in his cabin. Louise Narron had seemed gravely disappointed with his lovemaking, but he had managed it, hadn't he? He had proved to her that she aroused him. So why had there been so much uncertainty about whether they were going to continue their affair or not?
In exasperation, he called Percy Fearson's number. The telephone rang for almost two minutes before it was picked up, and Mr. Fearson's strong north-eastern accent said, "Yes? What do you want?
"Mr Fearson? It's Rudyard Philips. I hope I haven't woken you up."
"You can hope all you like, lad. You have. Well, what is it?"
"I seem to be under arrest, Mr Fearson."
"Under arrest? Did I hear you quite right? What are you talking about?"
Rudyard rubbed his left eye with a nicotine-stained finger, and it stung. "It's Sir Peregrine, sir. He's accusing me of running down a small boat, and drowning one of the occupants. He says I'm under arrest, confined to my billet, sir."
"Running down a small boat? I don't know what the devil you're on about, lad. What small boat? We haven't run down any small boats, have we?"
"Sir Peregrine may not have told you, sir, but we have. A fishing vessel called the Drogheda, a couple of miles out of Dublin Bay."
"That's ridiculous. We would have known. We would have felt it."
"Not necessarily, sir. The Arcadia is an extremely large ship. Very few people on the Titanic knew that they'd struck an iceberg until she started to founder. We could cut through an average-sized fishing vessel like an axe through Derby cheese."
Mr Fearson said thoughtfully, "I see. When did we first find out about this?"
"Early this morning, Mr. Fearson. They sent us a wireless message from Dublin. That's when Sir Peregrine ordered me to go back to my billet, and to consider myself under arrest."