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  Daisy had no further opportunity to reassure the child, as Mr. Arbuckle came up to them, already changed into shipboard garb of a greenish Harris tweed plus-four suit. He raised his matching flat cap, then chucked Belinda under the chin and gave her a ten-shilling note.

  “Gosh, thank you ever so … I mean, frightfully much!”

  “It’s no use to me at home, honey,” he said jovially, but his anxious gaze was on the after gang-plank, where passengers were still boarding. “I’m expecting another friend, Mrs. Fletcher,” he went on. “I sure hope he hasn’t piked off at the last minute.”

  “Piked—oh, hopped it? Why should he?”

  “Waal, it’s like this, see. Jethro Gotobed’s one smart cookie, a real go-getter. He’s a farmhand’s son who made his first million by the age of forty, but sixty-and-never-been-married is a tough age. Where women are concerned, he’s a babe-in-arms. He’s got himself involved with a …” Arbuckle glanced at Belinda, who looked back with innocent interest.

  “Is his name really Go-to-bed?” she asked.

  “Sure is, honey. I asked the self-same question when we were introduced.”

  “An old and venerable name, I believe,” said Daisy. “Goodness knows what the first Gotobed did to earn it.”

  Under cover of Belinda’s giggles, Arbuckle whispered to Daisy behind his hand, with a significant nod, “A chorus girl. Seemed to me he’d be a darn sight better off without her, if you catch my drift, so I invited him to visit. I know you and Fletcher are still honeymooners, but I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind lending a hand to take his mind off her, give him a gay old time. But he’s not here. I guess she’s got her hooks into him deeper than … No, there he is!”

  “Where?” Daisy turned to look down at the bustling quay. Forward, derricks were still swinging cargo aboard, for the Talavera was a freighter as well as carrying about two hundred passengers, no steerage, all cabin class. Aft milled a couple of dozen of those passengers and twice as many friends and relatives come to bid them farewell. “Which is Mr. Gotobed?”

  “Just setting foot on the gang-plank. The guy in the … Waal, I’ll be … !” Arbuckle groaned. “Son of a gun, if he hasn’t brought the harpy with him!”

  A tallish woman clung with a crimson-gloved hand to the arm of a short but burly man. He wore a grey, caped ulster and an old-fashioned cap with peaks front and back and ear flaps now tied up with a little bow on top of his head. Her lush curves, emphasized by a figure-hugging, blush pink costume, defied the current no-bosom, no-bottom mode. Daisy, whose constant fight with her own curves was a losing battle, admired her blatant disregard for the dictates of fashion.

  The voluptuous harpy turned her head to glance up, laughing, into Gotobed’s ruddy face. The setting sun struck a red gleam from a clasp attaching a bunch of long, pink feathers to her crimson cloche hat.

  Belinda had climbed onto the lowest rail and was watching the embarking passengers with great interest. “Is that lady really a harpist? A lady came to play the harp at school once. I liked it. Do you think I could learn it one day, instead of the piano, when I’m big enough, M-Mummy?”

  She still stumbled a bit over the unaccustomed word—her own mother had died of influenza when she was four. Daisy was beginning to grow used to being called Mrs. Fletcher, or sometimes Mrs. Alec, but “Mummy” gave her a queer, warmish feeling inside.

  “I expect so, darling.”

  “Belinda, get down at once.” Mrs. Fletcher Senior’s scandalized voice came from close behind. “Only naughty boys climb on railings. You will fall.”

  Giving Daisy a sideways, conspiratorial look, Belinda lowered one skinny, black-stockinged leg. Daisy put an arm around her waist.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll hold her.”

  Her mother-in-law frowned. “Come along now, child. We have a train to catch.”

  Jumping down, Belinda flung her arms around Daisy for a quick hug, then ran to Alec. He stooped and she clung to him.

  Mrs. Fletcher Senior gave her granddaughter an impatient look. In her Victorian view of the world, not only must girls be young ladies, though boys were permitted to be boys, but open displays of affection were frowned upon. (Daisy had subversive intentions on both fronts.)

  She turned back to Daisy and said unconvincingly, “I’m sure I hope you have a pleasant journey.”

  Belinda’s hand in his, Alec accompanied the two to the companion-way to the lower deck and handed his mother down. As they disappeared, Daisy tactfully stayed behind with Arbuckle.

  “Little pitchers have big ears,” he said. “If only Wanda Fairchild really was a lady harpist, not a cheap little gold-digger! This is going to be darn awkward.”

  “Perhaps she has just come to see him off. Or …” Daisy paused as Phillip, his usually pleasantly vacuous face grim, hurried up towing a resigned Gloria in sable-trimmed scarlet.

  “Poppa, was that the woman you told us about coming aboard with Mr. Gotobed?”

  “Sure was, honey.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Phillip, “knowing Gotobed’s a chum of yours, but I can’t let Gloria associate with his … his …”

  “Floozy.” Arbuckle shook his head. “I wouldn’t let her myself, son, and Miss Dalrymple—Mrs. Fletcher—can’t be expected to get acquainted with that type of person. But it’s going to be mighty ticklish if the poor old simp tries to introduce her around.”

  “Assuming they have separate cabins,” said Daisy, with a flash of sympathy for the reviled Miss Fairchild, “and that he introduces her as a friend, we can’t possibly cut her. Or there’s always the possibility that your invitation, Mr. Arbuckle, expedited …”

  Again she was interrupted. A boy in ship’s uniform loped by, calling, “All ashore that’s going ashore, please! All ashore that’s going ashore.”

  Arbuckle turned back to the rail. “Okay, let’s see if she goes ashore.”

  Along with most of the passengers, they all leaned against the rail, watching the gang-plank. A few dilatory souls were still boarding, against the flow of departing well-wishers. Among the latter, Daisy picked out Mrs. Fletcher’s old-fashioned, low-crowned black hat with the curled-up brim and Belinda’s navy blue school hat. Bel looked up and madly waved a hankie. Daisy madly waved back.

  Nowhere was Miss Fairchild’s smart, pink cloche visible. Arbuckle hung further and further over the top rail until Gloria grabbed him by the sleeve and hauled him back.

  “No sign,” he said, disconsolately.

  “Now, Poppa, you know they call out ‘All ashore’ at least half a dozen times and then blow the whistle.”

  “That’s so, honey. But even if she stays on board, maybe we still have a chance to save him from her clutches. For a start, I’ll have a word with the Purser and see that she’s seated at a different table from the rest of us and doesn’t get a deck-chair near us. I’ve already fixed it so we’re all together.”

  He started to turn away, already feeling for his wallet.

  Daisy put her hand on his arm. “Hold on a bit, Mr. Arbuckle. It would be too fearfully awkward if you tried to separate them and they …”

  “Mr. Arbuckle? Davis, sir, Second Engineer. You requested …”

  “Ah yes!” Cheering up, Arbuckle turned to Phillip. “Son, I’ve fixed for you to take a tour of the engine room. They switched quite recently from coal- to oil-burning engines, I’m told. I thought you’d like to watch as they start things running.”

  “I say, sir, what a ripping idea! Lead on, Davis.”

  “I’m coming too,” said Gloria.

  “Now, honey, the engine room’s no place for a lady.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” Phillip said firmly, linking Gloria’s arm through his. “I’ll take care of her.”

  “Well!” Daisy stared after them. After all the times Phillip had insisted that writing for money was not at all the thing for a lady, here he was actually encouraging his wife to take an interest in matters mechanical.

  “I tend to forget she’s marrie
d now, not just my little girl,” Arbuckle said apologetically. “Ah, here comes Fletcher. He’s bound to have some good ideas on how to deal with the situation.”

  As Arbuckle explained matters to Alec, he and Daisy kept their eyes on the gang-plank. They were taken by surprise when a jovial voice, pure Yorkshire in intonation, came from behind.

  “Arbuckle!”

  “Gotobed!” Arbuckle swung round. “I saw you coming up the gang-plank. I’d recognize that monstrosity on your head a mile off.”

  Turning, Daisy saw the man in the grey overcoat with its unfashionable cape and the red-and-green-plaid, fore-and-aft cap. He certainly wasn’t dressed like a millionaire.

  Beside him, her arm linked possessively through his, stood the woman in pink.

  Close to, the setting sun full on her face, her heavy maquillage failed to hide the fact that she was a good ten years older than Daisy had expected. Her best feature was her wide, dark eyes. Daisy was not good at judging clothes, but the costume appeared to be expensively tailored. Could the large, rather flashy rosette brooch holding the feathers in her hat be composed of real rubies?

  “All ashore that’s going ashore!”

  “Hadn’t you better …,” Arbuckle started.

  Gotobed laughed, his broad, ruddy face bright. “Oh, she’s not going ashore. My dear, this is my Yankee friend, Caleb P. Arbuckle. Arbuckle, meet Mrs. Gotobed.”

  As Arbuckle gaped, aghast, Mrs. Gotobed simpered. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, in a husky contralto with a careful refinement far more painful to the discerning ear than any undisguised provincial accent. With a frankly curious, slightly myopic stare at Daisy, she added, “This must be your charming daughter, Mr. Arbuckle, that I’ve heard so much about from Mr. Gotobed.”

  Since Arbuckle was still apparently speechless, Daisy stepped into the breech. “No, as a matter of fact, I’m a friend of Mr. Arbuckle and the Petries—Daisy Dal——Daisy Fletcher, and this is my husband, Alec. How do you do?”

  “How do you do?” Alec echoed politely, raising his hat.

  “Very well, thank you, and ever so pleased to meet any friend of Mr. Arbuckle’s, aren’t we, Dickie? That’s what I call Mr. Gotobed,” Mrs. Gotobed said confidentially. “Richard’s his middle name, see. Jethro’s his first, but such a mouthful. I mean, what can you make of it? ‘Jethie’ just sounds like you’re lisping.”

  “It does, rather,” Daisy agreed, avoiding Alec’s eye lest she giggle. “How do you do, Mr. Gotobed?” She held out her hand.

  He shook it heartily. With a doting glance at his wife, he explained, in a voice from which practically all Yorkshire influence had vanished, “We got married just a couple of days ago, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s been quite a rush, what with getting Wanda put on my passport and all.”

  “Mr. Gotobed swept me off my feet, wouldn’t take no for an answer. We’ll wait till you get back from America, I says, but he wouldn’t have it, would you, Dickie-bird?”

  “I couldn’t risk losing you to some other lucky man,” Gotobed said simply.

  The requisite congratulations were forthcoming, Arbuckle speaking them as if they puckered his mouth like pure vinegar. Daisy thought his dismay excessive.

  She didn’t suppose Mrs. Gotobed to be madly in love with her elderly husband, but she appeared to be mildly fond of him. There seemed no reason why she should not cheer his declining years—not that he looked likely to decline in the near future. Arbuckle said the Yorkshireman had never married before, so there were no children to be done out of his millions.

  “But where are Mr. and Mrs. Petrie?” Gotobed asked. “Wanda is eager to meet them.”

  “Oh yes, I’m ever so keen. Mr. Gotobed’s told me all about them. Mr. Petrie’s the son of a lord, isn’t he? An Honourable?”

  Arbuckle glanced at Daisy and opened his mouth. Daisy frowned at him fiercely. She didn’t want Wanda Gotobed, or anyone else on board, sucking up to her because she, too, had an Honorable before her name. Alec was likewise incognito. Perfectly ordinary, law-abiding people tended to get shifty-eyed if they discovered there was a Scotland Yard detective among them.

  “Gloria and Phillip have gone to take a look at the ship’s engines,” Arbuckle told the Gotobeds. “And I guess you’ll be wanting to take a look at your stateroom—cabin, as you Britishers call it.”

  “Mr. Gotobed’s taken a de luxe suite for us, not just a cabin. My maid’s down there unpacking. He made me bring a maid, you know. He says you just can’t rely on the stewardesses.”

  “I expect they’re frightfully overworked today, poor things,” said Daisy, who had unpacked and put away her own and Alec’s things. The years since her father’s death had accustomed her to doing for herself. She didn’t want a stranger pawing through her belongings.

  Mrs. Gotobed gave her an unexpectedly sharp look. “Yes, I s’pose they are busy,” she quickly agreed, “poor things. Dickie-bird, let’s go and take a peek at our suite.”

  “Right you are, love. Arbuckle, Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, I hope you and the Petries will join us there before dinner and drink a toast to my lovely bride.”

  They all accepted, Daisy trying to sound enthusiastic enough to make up for Arbuckle’s lack of enthusiasm. The newly-weds departed.

  At that moment, the Talavera’s steam whistle let go with an ear-shattering blast. Daisy jumped.

  “Last warning for those going ashore,” said Arbuckle gloomily, staring after them. “Which she’s not. Wanda Gotobed. What a name! You’d think that alone would be enough to make him forget about marrying her. Must be all the old goat’s thinking about, though, because why else …”

  Alec coughed.

  Arbuckle blushed. “Pardon me, Mrs. Fletcher. This business has me in such a tizzy, I’m forgetting my manners. No offence, I hope!”

  “No offence,” Daisy assured him. “But I don’t believe it’s as bad as you fear. She may be … well, common, but if he’s the son of a farm labourer, that very likely suits him better than a wife who might look down on him. And you say he has plenty of money. The worst she can do now is help him spend it. I expect he’ll enjoy the process.”

  3

  The Gotobeds’ sitting room was three times the size of Daisy and Alec’s tourist-class cabin. On the walls hung large paintings of the Talavera’s sister ships, Vitoria and Waterloo. The furniture was in the style of Sheraton or Hepplewhite (Daisy was vague as to which was which), gleaming with polish and silk brocade. Matching curtains hung at the portholes, which were disguised as casement windows, presumably so that the occupants could pretend they were not at sea.

  Under one of these windows stood a table large enough to seat four in reasonable comfort. A tray of champagne glasses and a silver ice-bucket with the wired neck of a magnum protruding promised oil to smooth the social waters.

  Alec and Daisy were the first guests to arrive.

  “Welcome to our home away from home,” Gotobed greeted them expansively. “Fletcher, mebbe you’d like to tackle the champagne bottle? I’ve niver opened one in my life. Beer I was brought up on and beer’s my tipple, though I confess to an occasional whisky and water.”

  “A man after my own heart,” said Alec, grinning. “I’ve never opened champagne either, but Great Scott, how difficult can it be? Absolute idiots do it all the time. Let’s have a dekko.”

  The two men moved over to the table. Alec tore off the foil and, examining the wiring beneath, they discussed the best way to attack it.

  “Have a seat, do,” Mrs. Gotobed invited Daisy. With a careless gesture, she waved at the room. “Not bad, eh?”

  Daisy detected tension beneath the assumption of nonchalance. The poor woman must feel like a dandelion in a bed of dahlias. Well, perhaps not quite, not with the peroxided, marcelled hair, that fringed, beaded, rose silk evening frock—probably straight from Paris, as was her perfume—and the long rope of pearls which Daisy suspected of being genuine.

  Still, Mrs. Gotobed was not altogether at ease. Daisy sympathized, remembering
how odd she had felt just after her wedding, although she had been amongst friends and relatives.

  “Very nice,” she said, glancing around the room again.

  The white walls, picked out in gilt, the blue-and-gold brocade and blue-and-white carpet were in the best of interior decorator taste. Daisy preferred the comfortably eclectic decor of Fairacres, where every style from Jacobean onwards had melded over the centuries into its own particular charm, happily unaltered by Edgar and Geraldine. Possibly Mrs. Gotobed preferred something gaudier.

  “Very elegant,” Daisy assured her. “I hope your sleeping cabin is comfortable.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Gotobed archly. “Mr. Gotobed insisted on me taking forty winks before you came, after such a busy day as we had. I had to chase him out so’s I could get ready in time. He doesn’t understand yet how long it takes a girl to make the best of herself, even with Baines to help.”

  She paused, apparently awaiting a compliment on her appearance, but Daisy’s sympathy did not extend quite so far. It had taken her just fifteen minutes, in the cramped little cabin with pipes running across the ceiling, to wash, dress, and powder her nose. She had been feeling quite smart in a new, black georgette frock, dressed up with a cerise chiffon scarf held with a diamanté brooch, until she saw Wanda Gotobed’s Paris model.

  “It’s such a beautiful evening, Alec and I stayed up on deck. It was interesting watching the tugs pull and push the ship out into the channel. Then we met the Talavera’s sister ship, Salamanca, coming in. I expect you heard the whistles blowing again? They greet each other with a W for Wellington in Morse code, short-long-long. All the Salamanca’s passengers were at the rails waving to us.”

  Supremely uninterested, Mrs. Gotobed complained, “I don’t see why British ships have foreign names. You’d think they’d want to give them good English names.”

  “I suppose, since it’s the Wellington Line, they thought it a good idea to name them after Wellington’s victories.” History at Daisy’s school had consisted of long lists of English kings and battles, that she remembered, with dates, that she forgot. “I wonder if there’s a Ciudad Rodrigo.”