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“Marya says that Captain Mason—the one who took over from Cutter after he refused to change course—has seized the bridge of the ship and is sending us on a collision course with a reef.”
The razor paused in its smooth progress down Pendergast’s long white jaw. Almost thirty seconds passed. Then the shaving resumed. “And why has Mason done this?”
“Nobody knows. She just went crazy, it seems.”
“Crazy,” Pendergast repeated. The scraping continued, maddeningly slow and precise.
“On top of that,” Constance said, “there’s been another encounter with that thing, the so-called smoke ghost. A number of people saw it, including the cruise director. It almost seems as if . . .” She paused, uncertain how to articulate it, then dropped the idea. It was no doubt her imagination.
Pendergast’s shaving continued, in silence, the only sounds the faint booming and buffeting of the storm and the occasional raised voice in the corridor. Constance and Marya waited. At last he finished. He rinsed, wiped off and folded the razor, mopped and toweled his face, pulled on his shirt, buttoned it, slipped the gold cuff links into his cuffs, threw on his tie and knotted it with a few expert tugs. Then he stepped into the sitting room.
“Where are you going?” Constance asked, both exasperated and a little frightened. “Do you have any idea what’s going on here?”
He picked up his jacket. “You mean you haven’t figured it out?”
“Of course I haven’t!” Constance felt herself losing her temper. “Don’t tell me you have!”
“Naturally I have.” He slipped on his suit coat and headed for the door.
“What?”
Pendergast paused at the door. “Everything’s co
“How?” Constance asked, exasperated. “You have the same information I do, and I find explanations to be so tiresome. Besides, it’s irrelevant now—all of it.” He waved his hand vaguely around the room. “If what you say is true, all this will shortly be wedged in the abyssal muck at the bottom of the Atlantic, and right now I have something important to do. I’ll be back in less than an hour. Perhaps in the meantime you might manage a simple plate of eggs Benedict and green tea?”
He left.
Constance stared at the door long after it had closed behind him. Then she turned slowly to Marya. For a moment she said nothing.
“Yes?” Marya asked.
“I have a favor to ask you.”
The maid waited.
“I want you to bring me a doctor as soon as possible.”
Marya looked at her with alarm. “Are you ill?”
“No. But I think
he
is.”
53
GAVIN BRUCE AND WHAT HE HAD BEGUN TO CALL HIS TEAM SAT in the midships lounge on Deck 8, engaged in conversation about the state of the ship and the next steps they might take. The Brita
Bruce shifted in his chair. While their mission to speak to Commodore Cutter had failed, it gratified him that the man had been removed and his recommendations had been acted upon. He felt that, in the end, his intervention had done some good.
Cutter had clearly been out of his depth. He was a kind of captain Bruce knew well from his own career in the Royal Navy, a commander who confused stubbor
“We’re moving into the teeth of the storm,” said Niles Welch, nodding at the row of streaming windows.
“Hate to be out in that mess on board a smaller ship,” Bruce replied. “Amazing how sea-kindly this big ship is.”
“Not like the destroyer I was a middy on during the Falklands war,” said Quentin Sharp. “Now that was a squirrelly vessel.”
“I’m surprised the captain increased speed back there,” said Emily Dahlberg. “Can’t say I blame her,” Bruce replied. “In her position, I’d want to get this Jonah ship into port as soon as possible, the hell with the passengers’ comfort. Although if it were me I might just ease off on the throttle a trifle. This ship is taking quite a pounding.” He glanced over at Dahlberg. “By the way, Emily, I wanted to congratulate you on how you quieted that hysterical girl just now. That’s the fourth person you’ve managed to calm in the last hour.”
Dahlberg crossed one poised leg over the other. “We’re all here for the same reason, Gavin—to help maintain order and assist any way we can.”
“Yes, but I could never have done it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody that upset.”
“I just used my maternal instincts.”
“You’ve never had any children.”
“True.” Dahlberg smiled faintly. “But I’ve got a good imagination.”
The sound of urgent footsteps and confused shouting came echoing down the corridor.
“Not another group of drunken sods,” Sharp muttered.
The voices grew louder, and an unruly group of passengers appeared, led by a man who was clearly drunk. They had fa
“Did you hear?” the man in the lead shouted, his voice slurred. “You hear?” The others in the group kept banging, shouting for everyone to come out.
Bruce sat up.
“Is something wrong?” Dahlberg asked sharply.
The drunken man stopped, swaying slightly. “We’re on a collision course!”
There was a babble of frightened voices. The man waved his arms. “Captain’s seized the bridge! She’s going to wreck the ship on the Grand Banks!”
A burst of questions, shouts.
Bruce rose. “That’s an incendiary charge to make, sir, on board a ship. You’d better be able to back it up.”
The man looked unsteadily at Bruce. “I’ll back it up. I’ll back
you
up, pal. It’s all over the ship, the whole crew is talking about it.”
“It’s true!” a voice in the rear shouted. “The captain’s locked herself on the bridge, alone. Set a course for the Carrion Rocks!”
“What nonsense,” said Bruce, but he was made uneasy by the mention of the Carrion Rocks. He knew them well from his navy days: a broad series of rocky, fanglike shoals jutting up from the surface of the North Atlantic, a grave hazard to shipping.
“It’s true!” the drunken man cried, swinging his arm so hard he almost pulled himself off balance. “It’s all over the ship!”