Bodies from the Library: Lost Tales of Mystery and Suspense by Agatha Christie and other Masters of the Golden Age

LAURENCE: There’s one way out, Alice?

ALICE: One way out.

LAURENCE: My darling. I love you. You must know that. Come away with me. Leave him.

ALICE: I wonder if you mean that. Do you realise—? No, listen. It would be the end of your partnership in the firm. Daddy would be sacked too, and James would see he never got another ship. I couldn’t do it.

LAURENCE: My sweet, do you love me?

ALICE: I—oh, I don’t know, Laurence. I’m fond of you. You’ve been so kind to me all these months—

LAURENCE: Kind!

ALICE: No, please don’t make it more difficult for me. You know I can’t. If it was just ourselves—but there’s Daddy. He set all his hopes on me. He wanted me to have the world—and he thinks I’ve got it. Lady Braithwaite! No, it’d break his heart. I am grateful to you, my dear—

LAURENCE: Very well. I understand. I’ll not say a word more about it. For the present. Perhaps James will fall overboard during the voyage or something.

ALICE: The voyage. I’m dreading it. Do you know why I’m so upset this morning? Why James is bringing you and Laura and me on the voyage? Do you realise what this Mr Strangeways is for?

LAURENCE: Strangeways? He’s coming as a temporary secretary, your husband told me.

ALICE: Secretary! Laurence, it’s vile. James suspects—shh—oh, it’s Laura.

LAURA: Hello, you two. You look very cheerful, I must say. I’ve just been laying in some Mother Siegel’s. Where’s James?

(Fade. Sound of subdued voices. Voice of Page-boy growing louder.)

PAGE-BOY: Calling Sir James Braithwaite. Room 15. Calling Sir James Braithwaite. Room 15. Calling Sir James Braithwaite. Room—

(Snapping of fingers.)

JAMES: Here, boy. Haven’t you got eyes in your head? What is it, now?

PAGE-BOY: Mr Nigel Strangeways to see you, sir. In the lobby, sir.

(Sir James rises. As he goes out, the murder of voices is heard again. Above it, three voices rise.)

VOICE I: Who’s that old bird, Reggie?

VOICE II: Sir James Braithwaite. The shipowner. Sailing on one of his own ships next tide, I believe.

VOICE III: Jimmy Braithwaite sailing on one of his own ships? Crikey! Is he tired of life, or what?

(Fade. A door closes.)

JAMES: Morning, Strangeways. So you’ve decided to take on the job, eh?

NIGEL: Yes, Sir James. I—

JAMES: Just step out on the terrace with me a moment. It’ll be quieter out there.

(Sound of swing-door. Lobby noises cut off.)

NIGEL: (brisk, cheerful, not at all overawed by Sir James) Yes. You made such a mystery of it over the telephone. And I just can’t refrain from poking my nose into mysteries.

JAMES: (very frigid) Indeed? It is understood that you will be sailing as my employee, my secretary?

NIGEL: (faintest note of amusement in voice) Yes, Sir James.

JAMES: Very well, As I think I told you, we are to sail on one of my own ships: the ‘James Braithwaite’. She’s a freighter of some 2,500 tons, with accommodation for a few passengers. My wife—Lady Alice; Laurence Annesley and his sister, Laura—he’s a junior partner in my firm—will be coming as well. We go out on the evening tide.

NIGEL: And where does the—er—secretary come in?

JAMES: Your job is to keep your eyes open, Strangeways—and your mouth shut.

NIGEL: Hmm. A sea trip and a nice fat fee for—keeping my eyes open.

JAMES: When I need a job doing, young man, I can afford to pay for it.

NIGEL: So you’ve purchased the best detective that money can buy, to keep his eyes open. Open for what, Sir James?… Are you anticipating an attempt on your life, for instance?

JAMES: Don’t be ridiculous … I’ll tell you more when we get on board. There’s several kinds of treachery, young man.

NIGEL: Just one thing, Sir James. Why the ‘James Braithwaite’? Why have you decided to sail on a small, uncomfortable cargo-steamer, when—

JAMES: That’s my affair. Nothing wrong with my ships, let me tell you—

(Fade out. Fade in to quayside. Sound of seagulls, winches, commands. Voices, Tyneside accent, are of two stevedores and one seaman.)

VOICE I: Got the owner sailing with you, Geordie, eh?

VOICE II: Aye, the old—(loud expectoration). And a cargo of skirts. Women on board! I don’t like it. It’s not lucky.

VOICE III: Won’t be the first time a Braithwaite boat’s been unlucky, mate.

VOICE II: Aye, and for why? Look at the way he sorts them out. Ruddy suicide ships, that’s all they are.

VOICE I: Reckon your owner doesn’t worry. He gets the insurance, see?

VOICE II: Too true he does. (lowers voice) I was on the ‘Mary Garside’, chum. Gaw, she was a packet! Chuck a cupful of water at her, and she’d start her rivets. And roll! Jees, we was hardly off soundings, and she rolled so you could see passing ships through the ventilators. When she went down—

VOICE III: Pipe down, Geordie. There’s the master going aboard.

GREER: Morning, Mr Maclean.

MACLEAN: Good day to you, Captain.

GREER: Got your loading done?