Afraid they were going to ask his business aboard the boat and that he would have to say something to them about pit props, Paul began searching his jacket in the pretence he had forgotten something and to use the fact as an excuse to leave. He had meant to spend some time making a few notes on lumber to flesh out his assumed character although, with so much else on his mind, every time it occurred to him all he was able to do was resurrect visions of the endless Russian birch and conifer forests. All Paul knew about timber bracing was that if a trench collapsed someone would shout for the sappers to come and shore it up again. Beyond that, the thought of being buried in a collapsed dugout or, worse, go tunnelling with the men who laid mines under the opposing trenches, was enough to bring him out in a cold sweat.
Going through his jacket now, he found a piece of paper in an inside pocket and gratefully pulled it out to use as a diversion. It had been some while since he’d worn the coat and he had no idea what the paper was but, as he unfolded it, found after reading a few lines that it contained the notes he had made while listening to Valentine expound on the process of extracting radium from pitchblende. He had not understood Valentine at the time and had thought taking notes might be a good idea. Looking at them now he found an incomprehensible jumble of words and odd diagrams. Still, since the whole business had been a confidence trick, he supposed there was no reason at all why any of it should make sense.
He glanced surreptitiously at the Russians and saw they had gone back to talking to each other again. Pinker was still making little headway with Reverend Pater, and the women both had their noses in books.
Paul put away the piece of paper, stubbed out his cigarette and took another from the packet. He struck a match as the door to the deck opened again and a man paused on the threshold. Squinting up through his cigarette smoke, Paul glanced at him idly and froze. His jaw, hanging open, spilled the lighted cigarette onto the chair between his legs. The burning match followed it.
‘Good afternoon,’ Valentine said cheerily, stepping into the saloon.
13
The acrid aroma of singing fabric jerked Paul back to his senses. Jumping out of the chair he began flicking at his trousers. The cigarette fell onto the floor and he ground it out with his shoe, leaving a smudge on the threadbare rug and the smell of burnt wool in the air. Looking up he saw the other passengers staring at him. A gong sounded and the doors to the dining room opened.
‘Something up, Filbert?’ Pinker asked.
‘I dropped my cigarette,’ Paul said, examining his trousers for holes.
‘Steady on. Ladies present.’
Paul took a moment to snuff out the smouldering chair fabric and followed the others into the dining room. He saw the captain sitting at the head of the table and the first officer at the foot. Valentine had taken the seat next to the younger of the two women and Paul, last to be seated, took the last chair next to the podgy Trotsky. The Reverend Pater sat across the table from him glowering like the wrath of God.
Paul stole a glance at Valentine while the steward, Turner, circled the table with the soup tureen. Paul thought there was something different about the swindler and it took a moment for him to realise that Valentine was no longer wearing glasses. While selling the wonders of pitchblende extraction Valentine had adopted an air of a studious scientist — glasses, slight hunch of the shoulders, lank blond hair a little too long… Now he was well-groomed, his fashionable clothes immaculate, hair trimmed and fastidiously parted; the epitome of urbanity.
‘Darling,’ he said to the astonishment of the young lady sitting next to him. ‘Peter Darling.’ He smiled at the seated company. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I was rather late getting aboard last night, I’m afraid.’
Paul’s brain belatedly engaged a neglected gear. Valentine… Darling… Hart… synonyms and pseudonyms. He didn’t know why he hadn’t seen through it. Cumming had assumed he knew Hart which meant the pitchblende business had been a ruse to put Paul in debt and in a position where he was unlikely to refuse their offer. Had that been Cumming’s idea or Valentine’s? It hardly mattered. They had made a fool of him and worse — they had thought it necessary to entrap him, as if they had already decided that an appeal to his patriotic instincts wouldn’t be enough to secure his compliance. An opinion formed courtesy of the other Ross and his card-sharping, Paul supposed.
‘Can we thank you for our delay?’ Lenin asked, tucking a napkin into his collar.
Valentine remained unruffled. ‘I had planned to join the ship at Yarmouth but was unavoidably detained. Something came up at the last minute.’
‘Something of importance obviously,’ Lenin remarked, ‘if Captain Nordvik delayed sailing to accommodate you.’
Valentine inclined his head towards the captain. ‘Government business,’ he said to Paul’s amazement. ‘I’m going to Sweden to consult with their diplomatic service. A matter of prisoner of war welfare. Captain Nordvik was good enough to wait for me.’
This remark, to the accompaniment of the clattering of dishes as Turner began serving the soup, brought forth a round of introductions from Captain Nordvik for those who had not yet met.
The Russians were named Solokov and Korbelov, although Paul never caught which was which. They were Social-Revolutionaries — or Democratic-Socialists, as they intimated they preferred to be called — returning to Russia to support the Revolution. The first officer, Arnie Gunnarson, was a Swede in his thirties and was clean-shaven and well-presented in a spotless white uniform that contrasted sharply with his captain’s dark blue naval jacket and roll-necked sweater.
The women were Mrs Hogarth, the Danish widow of a British major who had been killed at Mons, and her niece Miss Andresen. Mrs Hogarth was returning to Denmark to live with her family.
‘I was an Andresen before my marriage,’ she explained, waving a self-deprecating hand before adding, ‘the family are titled landowners although I am nothing more than a poor cousin. My niece, Ragna, has kindly agreed to accompany me.’
Mrs Hogarth had removed her veil to reveal a face sketched in deep lines arranged geometrically around a hard-set mouth. Her small eyes were like a rodent’s, Paul thought, and he could feel them on him when he wasn’t looking at her. Her niece, Ragna, was by contrast and as he had thought earlier, attractive in a vacant way. Slim and wearing a simple and tightly buttoned Edwardian dress, her hair had been cut unfashionably short. She had regarded everyone at the table with interest but did not speak.
Turner finished serving the soup and there was a general movement towards the cutlery. Valentine turned to Paul who he had — pointedly, Paul thought — ignored until then.
‘I don’t believe I caught your name, sir.’
Paul scowled at him. ‘Filbert, Harold—’
The Reverend Pater’s voice drowned the rest as he launched unexpectedly into a loud recitation of the Latin Grace.
The company froze, spoons in mid-air. They fell silent as Paul glanced around the table. The captain and first officer had bowed their heads; the Russians followed suit — oddly to Paul’s way of thinking as he had assumed they would be atheists. Pinker, to the captain’s left, was mouthing silently along with Pater as if his soul depended upon it. Mrs Hogarth, sitting between Valentine and the captain, had taken the opportunity of the hiatus to clean her spoon on her napkin. Ragna Andresen, to Paul’s astonishment, had made a start on her soup. Valentine grinned and winked at him.