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

MACLEAN: There’s just those crates for Number 3 hold to go in. She’s trimmed by the head a wee bit, I’m thinking.

GREER: Step this way a minute, mister. Let Mr Cafferty attend to it.

(Steps along deck, down companionway. Noises shut off as they enter the captain’s saloon. The two men relax.)

GREER: A-Ah. Well, Donald, they’ll be aboard presently, it’s a great day for me—Alice and Sir James sailing with us.

MACLEAN: I don’t grudge it to you, John. I wish he might have picked on some other ship, though.

GREER: I know. But ye must let bygones be bygones.

MACLEAN: Bygones be bygones! I could forgive him for sailing out the ‘Mary Garside’ ill-found that voyage. Maybe I’d find it in my heart to forgive him that. But when he sets on his lawyers at the inquiry to make out it was my fault, when he loses me my master’s ticket—na, na, John, flesh and blood wilna endure that.

GREER: I know, Donald. But he had to save his face. And he kept you on in the company’s service.

MACLEAN: Wasn’t that great! A robber steals your reputation and allows ye to keep your badge-cap! And now he’s coming aboard to gloat over it. I’m wondering how I’ll keep my hands off the blasted wee runt. Why must he choose the ‘James Braithwaite’?

GREER: You know that as well as I do. (lowers voice) It’s a nice bit of eyewash, sailing on one of his own fleet. After the ‘Triton’ and the ‘Mary Garside’, well, there was nasty talk going about. So he’s sailing with us just to show the Braithwaite ships are all right. And he chose this ship because he knows she’s the soundest in the fleet. He’s got his head screwed on all right.

MACLEAN: He’s a damned hypocrite, John, and you know it.

GREER: Eh, well, you don’t get on in this world without a bit of that, and he’s good to Alice. Remember that, Donald. He’s made her happy. You should see the letters she writes me. She’s got everything she wants, everything I wanted for her—money, a grand position, hobnobbing with the swells—

MACLEAN: Everything she wants?—

GREER: Eh, it’s a fair knock-over. To think of my little Alice riding about in a Rolls-Royce—and me who started life a deck-side Geordie. Lady Braithwaite. Her mother’d be proud if she could see her now. And I’m to be a grandfather next year. What d’ye say to that, Donald? A grandfather … No, I’ll not deny he gave you a bad deal: but he’s not as bad as he’s painted—not when he makes my little girl so happy …

(Fade out. Fade in to dockside noises and approaching voices)

ALICE: Hello, Daddy, here we are.

GREER: Well, isn’t this great! Why, you’re looking pale, lass. She needs the sea air to put some roses in those cheeks, doesn’t she, Sir James?

JAMES: Evening, Greer. Everything ready for us? You know Mr Annesley. This is his sister—Captain Greer, Miss Annesley. My secretary, Mr Strangeways.

GREER: Welcome aboard, Miss Annesley. Gentlemen. Hope you’ll enjoy your trip. This way, please. The steward’ll show you your cabins.

LAURA: Steward! Oh, it makes me feel quite queer already. Stewards and basins do seem to go hand in hand, if you follow me, don’t they? Oh, Captain Greer, I do hope this is a steady boat. I always …

(Fade out with receding footsteps. Fade in to general conversation.)

GREER: This is my saloon. You must make yourselves at home here. There’s a radio set: and you’ll find playing-cards, and—

NIGEL: And dominoes? Do you play dominoes, Captain, during the long dog-watches? That’s a game I—

LAURA: Oh, Captain, what’s that perfectly dinky contraption over there?

GREER: That’s the radio telephone. You can talk to your friends ashore.

LAURA: Well, isn’t that sweet?

(Knock at door. Door opens)

GREER: My first mate. Mr Maclean.

MACLEAN: Good evening, ladies. Evening, Sir James—and gentlemen. Pilot’s come aboard, sir.

GREER: Very well. Carry on, mister.

(Deck and bridge sounds. Orders. Casting away the hawsers. Sound of telegraph. Steam-whistle. Pulse of engines grows louder, quicker. Presently its rhythm is mixed into a different sound—the tapping of a pencil on a table. We are in James’ and Alice’s cabin.)

ALICE: James. Please stop tapping with your pencil. It—it gets on my nerves … Why are you looking at me like that?

JAMES: Aren’t you a little overwrought, my dear? I was just thinking, you’ve a nice long sea-voyage before you. A nice long voyage with—your husband.

ALICE: Yes, James.

JAMES: And with young Laurence Annesley. You don’t seem so very pleased with the prospect. Two admirers, and no competition.

ALICE: Can’t you say straight out what you mean? Isn’t it rather cowardly—this perpetual hissing?

JAMES: Of course, he’s a younger man than I am, isn’t he? A good-looking young fellow, too.

ALICE: James, this is contemptible. I—

JAMES: And sea air does bring ’em up to scratch, doesn’t it? These shipboard romances. The moon, a lonely deck, the waves swirling past … But of course you wouldn’t encourage anything like that. You’re faithful to your husband, who has—the money. Yes. But you’d be glad of a little extra protection, I’m sure. Strangeways will help to keep an eye on you, and see that nothing—

ALICE: So that’s it. I was right. You’ve hired him to spy on me. You admit it.

JAMES: Indeed no. I admit nothing. Ask him, if you like.

ALICE: You haven’t even got the courage of your own vileness. You have to get somebody else to do your dirty work.

JAMES: But perhaps it’s a case of shutting the stable door after the horse is out. This child you’re going to have. It is mine? You’re quite sure?

ALICE: (breaks down: sobbing) Oh! How dare you say—? Oh God!

(Slam of door. Sobbing fades; then grows louder again, more intermittent, mixed with sea-sounds. We are on deck.)

LAURENCE: Darling, what is it? Tell me. Has he been—?

ALICE: (during this conversation she gradually controls herself, till towards the end her voice has the flat finality of despair) He—no, I can’t tell you, it’s too horrible for words.

LAURENCE: Tell me. You’ll feel better for it.

ALICE: He said—he accused me of—that the child I’m going to have isn’t his.

LAURENCE: Not his? But that’s—