Singing in the Shrouds

There’s coffee and sandwiches on in the dining-room.’

‘I don’t want them. I’ll go now.’

‘Cold outside. Proper freezer. Need a coat, Miss Abbott, won’t you?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Oh, very well. Thank you.’

She took her coat out of the wardrobe, snatched up her handbag, and hurried out.

‘Straight ahead, down the companionway and turn right,’ he called after her and added: ‘Don’t get lost in the fog, now.’

Her manner had been so disturbed that it aroused his curiosity. He went out on the deck and was in time to see her running along the wharf into the fog. ‘Runs like a man,’ Dennis thought. ‘Well, it takes all sorts.’

Mr and Mrs Cuddy sat on their respective beds and eyed each other with the semi-jocular family air that they reserved for intimate occasions. The blowers on the bulkhead were pouring hot air into the cabin, the porthole was sealed, the luggage was stowed and the Cuddys were cosy.

‘All right so far,’ Mrs Cuddy said guardedly.

‘Satisfied, dear?’

‘Can’t complain. Seems clean.’

‘Our own shower and toilet,’ he pointed out, jerking his head at a narrow door.

‘They’ve all got that,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t fancy sharing.’

‘What did you make of the crowd, though? Funny lot, I thought.’

‘RC priests.’

‘Only the one. The other was seeing-off. Do you reckon, RC?’

‘Looked like it, didn’t it?’

Mr Cuddy smiled. He had a strange thin smile, very broad and knowing. ‘They look ridiculous to me,’ he said.

‘We’re moving in high society, it seems,’ Mrs Cuddy remarked. ‘Notice the furs?’

‘And the perfume! Phew!’

‘I’ll have to keep my eye on you, I can see that.’

‘Could you catch what was said?’

‘Quite a bit,’ Mrs Cuddy admitted. ‘She may talk very la-de-dah but her ideas aren’t so refined.’

‘Reely?’

‘She’s a man-eater.’

Mr Cuddy’s smile broadened. ‘Did you get the flowers?’ he asked. ‘Orchids. Thirty bob each, they are.’

‘Get on!’

‘They are! It’s a fact. Very nice, too,’ Mr Cuddy said with a curious twist in his voice.

‘Did you see what happened with the other lady reading over the elderly chap’s shoulder? In the bus?’

‘Did I what! Talk about a freezer! Phew!’

‘He was reading about those murders. You know. The flower murderer. They make out he leaves flowers all scattered over the breasts of his victims. And sings.’

‘Before or after?’

‘After, isn’t it awful?’ Mrs Cuddy asked with enormous relish.

Mr Cuddy made an indefinite noise.

His wife ruminated: ‘It gives me the creeps to think about. Wonder what makes him go on so crazy.’

‘Women.’

‘That’s right. Put it all on the ladies,’ she said good-naturedly. ‘Just like a man.’

‘Well, ask yourself. Was there much in the paper?’

‘I couldn’t see properly but I think so. It’s on all the placards. They haven’t got him, of course.’

‘Wish we’d got a paper. Can’t think how I forgot.’

‘There might be one in the lounge.’

‘What a hope!’

‘The old chap left his in the bus. I noticed.’

‘Did you? You know,’ Mr Cuddy said, ‘I’ve got quite a fancy for the evening paper. I might stroll back and see if it’s there. The bus doesn’t go till eleven. I can just do it.’

‘Don’t be long. You know what I’m like. If you missed the boat – ’

‘We don’t sail till midnight, dear, and it’s only ten to eleven now. I won’t be more than a few minutes. Think I’d let you go out to sea with all these fascinatin’ sailors?’

‘Get along with you!’

‘Won’t be half a tick. I’ve got the fancy for it.’

‘I know I’m silly,’ Mrs Cuddy said, ‘but whenever you go out – to the Lodge or anything – I always get that nervous.’

‘Silly girl. I’d say come too, but it’s not worth it. There’s coffee on down below.’