Ngaio Marsh
Singing in the Shrouds
CAST OF CHARACTERS
P. C. Moir
A taxi driver
A sailor
Mrs. Dillington-Blick
Her Friend
Mr. Cuddy…a draper
Mrs. Cuddy…his wife
Miss Katherine Abbott…an authority on church music
Mr. Philip Merryman…a retired schoolmaster
Father Charles Jourdain…an Anglo-catholic priest
His fellow-cleric
Brigid Carmichael
Dr. Timothy Makepiece…medical officer, Cape Farewell
Mr. Aubyn Dale…a celebrity of commercial television
His dearest friend
Their dearest male friend
Their dearest female friend
Mr. Donald McAngus…a philatelist
Dennis…a steward
A wireless officer
Captain Jasper Bannerman…master, Cape Farewell
Superintendent Roderick Alleyn…C.I.D., New Scotland Yard
CHAPTER 1
Prologue with Corpse
In the pool of London and further east all through the dockyards the fog lay heavy. Lights swam like moons in their own halos. Insignificant buildings, being simplified, became dramatic. Along the Cape Line Company’s stretch of wharfage the ships at anchor loomed up portentously: Cape St. Vincent, Glasgow. Cape Horn, London. Cape Farewell, Glasgow. The cranes that served these ships lost their heads in the fog. Their gestures as they bowed and turned became pontifical.
Beyond their illuminated places the dockyards vanished. The gang loading the Cape Farewell moved from light into nothingness. Noises were subdued and isolated and a man’s cough close at hand was more startling than the rattle of winches.
Police Constable Moir, on duty until midnight, walked in and out of shadows. He breathed the soft cold smell of wet wood and heard the slap of the night tide against the wharves. Acres and acres of shipping and forests of cranes lay around him. Ships, he thought romantically, were, in a sort of way, like little worlds. Tied up to bollards and lying quiet enough but soon to sail over the watery globe as lonely as the planets wandering in the skies. He would have liked to travel. He solaced himself with thoughts of matrimony, promotion, and when the beat was getting him down a bit, of the Police Medal and sudden glory. At a passageway between buildings near the Cape Farewell he walked slower because it was livelier there. Cars drove up; in particular an impressive new sports car with a smashing redhead at the wheel and three passengers, one of whom he recognized with interest as the great television personality Aubyn Dale. It was evident that the others, a man and a woman, also belonged to that mysterious world of glaring lights, trucking cameras, and fan mail. You could tell by the way they shouted “Darling” at each other as they walked through the passageway.
P. C. Moir conscientiously moved himself on. Darkness engulfed him, lights revealed him. He had reached the boundary of his beat and was walking along it. A bus had drawn up at the entry to the waterfront and he watched the passengers get out and plod, heads down and suitcases in hand, towards the Cape Farewell—a lush bosomy lady and her friend, two clergymen, a married couple, a benevolent-looking gentlemen, a lovely young lady with a miserable expression, and a young gentleman who lagged behind and looked as if he’d like to ask her to let him carry her luggage. They walked into the fog, became phantoms, and disappeared down the passageway in the direction of the wharf.
For the next two and a half hours P. C. Moir patrolled the area. He kept an eye on occasional drunks, took a look at parked vehicles, observed ships and pubs, and had an instinctive ear open for any untoward sounds. At half-past eleven he took a turn down the waterfront and into a region of small ambiguous ships, ill-lit and silent, scarcely discernible in the fog that had stealthily accumulated about them.
“Quiet,” he thought. “Very quiet, this stretch.”
By a strange coincidence (as he was afterwards and repeatedly to point out) he was startled at this very moment by a harsh mewing cry.
“Funny,” he thought. “You don’t often seem to hear seagulls at night. I suppose they go to sleep like Christians.”
The cry sounded again, but shortly, as if somebody had lifted the needle from a record. Moir couldn’t really tell from what direction the sound had come, but he fancied it was from somewhere along the Cape Company’s wharf. He had arrived at the farthest point of his beat and he now returned. The sounds of activity about the Cape Farewell grew clear again. She was still loading.
When he got back to the passageway he found a stationary taxi wreathed in fog and looking desolate. It quite surprised him on drawing nearer to see the driver motionless over the wheel. He was so still that Moir wondered if he was asleep. However, he turned his head and peered out.
“Evening, mate,” Moir said. “Nice night to get lost in.”
“And that’s no error,” the driver agreed hoarsely. “ ’Ere!” he continued, leaning out and looking fixedly at the policeman. “You seen anybody?”
“How d’you mean, seen?”
“A skirt. Wiv a boxerflahs.”
“No,” Moir said. “Your fare, would it be?”
“Ah! My fare! ’Alf a minute at the outside, she says, and nips off lively. ’Alf a minute! ’Alf a bloody ar, more likely.”
“Where’d she go? Ship?” asked Moir, jerking his head in the direction of the Cape Farewell.
“ ’’Course. Works at a flah shop. Cartin’ rahnd bokays to some silly bitch wot’ll frow ’em to the fishes, like as not. Look at the time: arpas eleven. Flahs!”
“P’raps she couldn’t find the recipient,” P. C. Moir ventured, using police-court language out of habit.
“P’raps she couldn’t find the flippin’ ship nor yet the ruddy ocean! P’raps she’s drahned,” said the taxi driver in a passion.
“Hope it’s not all that serious, I’m sure.”
“Where’s my fare comin’ from? Twelve and a tanner gone up and when do I get it? Swelp me Bob if I don’t cut me losses and sling me ’ook.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” P. C. Moir said. “Stick it a bit longer, I would. She’ll be back. Tell you what, Aubyn Dale’s on board that ship.”
“Bloke that does the Jolyon Swimsuits session on commercial?”
“That’s right. Daresay she’s spotted him and can’t tear herself away. They go nuts over Aubyn Dale.”
“Silly cows,” the taxi driver muttered. “Telly!”
“Why don’t you stroll along to the ship and get a message up to her?”
“Why the hell should I!”
“Come on. I’ll go with you. I’m heading that way.” The driver muttered indistinguishably but he clambered out of his taxi and together they walked down the passageway. It was a longish passage and very dark, but the lighted wharf showed up mistily at the far end. When they came out they were almost alongside the ship. Her stern loomed up through the fog with her name across it:
CAPE FAREWELL
GLASGOW
Her after and amidships hatches had been shut down and, forward, her last load was being taken. Above her lighted gangway stood a sailor, leaning over the rails. P. C. Moir looked up at him.
“Seen anything of a young lady who brought some flowers on board, mate?” he asked.
“Would that be about two hours back?”
“More like half an hour.”
“There’s been nobody like that since I first come on and that’s eight bells.”
“ ’Ere!” said the driver. “There must of.”
“Well, there wasn’t. I been on duty here constant. No flowers come aboard after eight bells.”
P. C. Moir said, “Well, thanks, anyway. P’raps she met someone on the wharf and handed them over.”
“No flowers never come aboard with nobody. Not since when I told you. Eight bells.”
“Awright, awright, we ’eard,” said the driver ungratefully. “Bells!”