‘No sign,’ Pater intoned, ‘no sign…’ although he seemed to be paying more attention to the departing Valentine than the missing Pinker. ‘God bless the poor man’s soul,’ he finished.
‘Difficult to believe,’ Paul muttered for the wont of something more pertinent.
‘A tragedy, a tragedy indeed. Did he have family?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Paul said. ‘That is, he never mentioned anyone to me.’
‘You had the opportunity to talk to him?’
‘A little. We both boarded at Yarmouth and there was the delay at Hull.’
‘And you shared a cabin.’
‘Yes.’
‘Although,’ opined Pater, ‘that is no guarantee of cordiality.’ He leaned closer. ‘I saw you talking to Mr Darling. I share with him but we have not talked to any degree.’
‘No?’ Paul edged away and took a firm grip of the rail, looking to see where Valentine had disappeared to.
‘He keeps the most odd hours.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was not in his bunk for most of last night, for example. What do you make of that?’
‘Make of it? I don’t know what to make of it,’ Paul said.
The Reverend Pater gazed out across the water to where sombre cloud had fused with the leaden sea lending a hazy indistinctness to the horizon.
‘I am afraid I am of the opinion that he has formed an attachment to that young girl.’
‘Miss Andresen you mean?’
‘What kind of an attachment I would naturally hesitate to put into words,’ Pater went on. ‘I was wondering if Mr Darling has said anything to you on the matter, Filbert. I believe some men are wont to discuss these things.’
His eyes had fixed on Paul’s like a buzzard’s on its prey.
‘No, nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘He is never in his bunk, you see,’ said Pater, as if the implication was he must be in someone else’s.
‘I am concerned for the girl’s moral well-being, you understand,’ Pater droned.
‘Well, he’s said nothing to me. And I haven’t actually spoken to the girl at all. Keep myself to myself, don’t you know.’
‘Do you, Mr Filbert? Ah, if only it were as easy to keeps one’s soul as isolated as one’s flesh. But souls are prone to contamination even isolated from flesh. And I fear,’ he suggested, inclining his avian head towards Paul, ‘that our Mr Darling does not practice isolation with your zeal, Mr Filbert.’
Paul edged further away. ‘I might take a look on the other side,’ he said. ‘For Pinker,’ and he moved along the deck.
‘Ah yes,’ said Pater, seeming to remember why they were steaming around in circles. ‘Lost, I’m afraid.’
Pater went for’ard so Paul walked towards the stern. He ducked behind a canvas-covered lifeboat but Valentine was no longer there. Mrs Hogarth and Ragna walked by, neither looking out to sea nor talking, and Paul waited until they had gone into the saloon then made his way below again. He was somewhat bemused by Pater’s suggestion that there was something between Valentine and the Andresen girl. They had been sitting next to each other over the lunch table but each time Valentine had tried to start a conversation she seemed to ignore him. In fact, she ignored everyone. But had Valentine been paying her particular attention? Perhaps this kind of work attracted womanisers… Lockhart and Maura Budberg… Arthur Ransome and Trotsky’s secretary. Who knew who else might be at it? Browning had seemed rather taken with Miss Henslowe…
Paul opened his cabin door and found Valentine stretched out on Pinker’s bunk, leafing through the H.G.Wells novel.
‘This yours?’ he asked looking up as Paul walked in.
‘Pinker’s.’
‘Oh? Well he won’t need it,’ he said, slipping it into his jacket pocket. ‘I like a good story.’
Paul was about to say he had started it then let it go.
‘Pater thinks you’re carrying on with Miss Andresen,’ he said instead. ‘Kept on about the flesh and your soul.’
‘It’s a quirk of the religious mind,’ Valentine explained. ‘Can’t keep their minds off the carnal. My father was much the same. Played havoc with my mother’s health.’
‘Your father?’
‘A vicar. They’re the worst sort for that kind of thing.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Paul sympathised.
‘Water under the bridge, old man. Her own fault. She must have known what he was like when they married. But then she had a religious bent herself so I wouldn’t be surprised if her mind didn’t run along the same lines.’
Paul felt embarrassed listening to Valentine talk about his mother in such a way. He may have often conjectured as to whether his own parents had been married but he had never taken his speculation as far as their bedroom. He washed his face at the basin until his colour had subsided.
‘I didn’t have any lunch,’ he said, drying his face on a towel.
‘No, everyone seemed to lose their appetite,’ Valentine agreed. ‘Never mind. They’ll be ringing for dinner in a few hours. You can wait till then.’
Paul supposed he would have to. It occurred to him that there wasn’t much in the way of regular hours in the spying business. It wouldn’t have suited the chaps he had known in the army. By and large, they’d been pretty keen on having their grub at the allotted time.
There was a knock at the door and Valentine swung his legs off the bunk.
‘Who is it?’ Paul called.
‘The steward, sir.’
Paul opened the door. The steward glanced at Valentine then turned his usual hang-dog expression on Paul.
‘The Captain says Mr Pinker’s lost, sir, and that I’m to pack up his bags ready for when we dock tomorrow.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ Paul said. ‘I know what was his and what’s mine. You can pick the bags up later.’
‘As you like, sir.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Valentine offered as Paul closed the door behind the steward.
He began rummaging through Pinker’s gear like a buyer at a jumble sale.
‘Didn’t have much, did he?’ He looked critically at Pinker’s clothes as he sorted through them. He stuffed them haphazardly back into the salesman’s bag and picked up the wallet still lying by Pinker’s pillow. There were some banknotes in it, an invoice or two and some calling cards. Valentine took the money out and folded it into his own pocket.
‘For King and Country, old man,’ he said when he saw Paul’s expression. ‘It’s of no use to Pinker anymore and the steward will only take it.’ He cast a jaded eye over the rest of Pinker’s possessions. ‘Well, I’d better get up top and scout out the lie of the land,’ he said. ‘You can finish up here.’
Paul locked the door and sat disconsolately in the chair looking at the mess Valentine had made of Pinker’s belongings. Paul had already been through them once and found nothing of value or interest, so he packed everything away again and stood the bags by the door for the cabin steward to collect. He lay on the top bunk and, in lieu of Pinker’s novel to read, drifted off to sleep. The steward woke him, returning Paul’s laundry. The man left with Pinker’s bags and Paul locked himself in the bathroom along the corridor. He washed and put on a clean shirt and underwear. There was still an hour before dinner but he couldn’t stand the cabin any longer so went up top to the saloon.
‘It is my opinion,’ the Reverend Pater said at dinner, ‘he was taken ill and leaned over the rail, losing his balance.’
‘Is that how you think it might have happened, Mr Filbert?’ Mrs Hogarth enquired, as if his loss was greater than the others. ‘Such a nice man,’ she added.
Paul nodded, lips pursed in the hope his reticence might be taken for British fortitude. As far as he could remember, Mrs Hogarth had done her best to evade Pinker’s conversational gambits. But then, as he had often noticed, death warmed the character of most people in memory.