nor would he comment on whether the death had been an accident or something else.
‘What are you afraid of?’ she had said urgently. ‘Do you think I am going to run off and telephone the
New Gazette
– headline: Murder on the
Queen Mary
?’
Edward made no answer and, with difficulty, she reined in her resentment. It occurred to her that she might indeed telephone a story to the paper, as soon as she knew what the story was. She had met Barrett only briefly but he had seemed a pleasant young man. What was Lord Benyon’s valet doing dying in the
Queen Mary
’s cold storage? She bit her lip. She must give no promise to Edward or anyone else which would stop her doing her journalistic duty. Now she came to think about it, it was just the sort of story Joe Weaver liked and she felt the guilt that always crept up on her when she found herself turning someone’s misfortune into ‘entertainment’ for the nation’s breakfast tables.
Edward’s expression was grim. He was horrified at what he had seen and he feared this death would not be the last. He was itching to get back to Lord Benyon and make sure he was safe. As soon as he had left the freezer room it had struck him that, if Barrett had been killed, it must be because he was Benyon’s protector and that must mean Benyon himself was in grave danger – might, indeed, already be dead. When, at last, the doctor and several ship’s officers arrived to relieve him, Edward raced up to A Deck, all the time chanting curses to himself. He had been given a job to do and, not twelve hours into the mission, he had already failed. It was with a sigh of relief that, entering Benyon’s cabin, he saw his charge working peacefully at his desk, his pen in his hand and books and papers spread about him like feathers in a nest.
What he saw in Edward’s face, however, made Benyon go pale. When he heard what had happened to Barrett, he took off his spectacles and buried his head in his hands.
‘This is too awful. The poor boy! And I happen to know that he was engaged to be married.’
‘But you’re all right, that’s the main thing,’ Edward gasped.
‘No,’ Benyon said fiercely, ‘that’s not the main thing. The main thing is a young man has been butchered for my sake . . . protecting me. It should not have happened.’
Edward apologized. ‘I did not mean to sound heartless. I would give anything to have prevented it. It was a horrible thing and I shall never forget what I have just seen, but your mission might help us win a war. Nothing can be more important than that.’
‘I don’t blame
you
, Edward. Don’t think I was questioning your judgement. I just can’t –’
At that moment Marcus Fern came in, looking scared. ‘The Purser telephoned me and said something bad had happened and I was to come here. Thank God you’re all right, Benyon. I thought you might have been taken ill.’
Edward gave him a concise account of the discovery of Barrett’s body. When he had finished, the three men looked at one another in consternation. Simultaneously, they recognized they were in a trap. The
Queen Mary
had seemed so safe. They had been cocooned in luxury, lulled into a false sense of security, but now they realized that, behind a veneer of civilization at its most artificial, there lurked very real danger. The worst of it was that, for the next few days, there was no escape . . . no turning back. It was feasible, Edward supposed, to have a warship rendezvous with them and take off Benyon but the logistics were daunting. He wasn’t even sure exactly how someone was conveyed from one ship to another in mid-ocean. He had a vision of ropes and a man bobbing over the waves on some sort of boatswain’s chair. He shuddered. In any case, the publicity of such a manoeuvre would be just what Benyon did not want. No, they must go on but never let their man out of sight.
‘Thank God I brought my man, Fenton, with me. He’s totally trustworthy and with your permission,
‘What are you afraid of?’ she had said urgently. ‘Do you think I am going to run off and telephone the
New Gazette
– headline: Murder on the
Queen Mary
?’
Edward made no answer and, with difficulty, she reined in her resentment. It occurred to her that she might indeed telephone a story to the paper, as soon as she knew what the story was. She had met Barrett only briefly but he had seemed a pleasant young man. What was Lord Benyon’s valet doing dying in the
Queen Mary
’s cold storage? She bit her lip. She must give no promise to Edward or anyone else which would stop her doing her journalistic duty. Now she came to think about it, it was just the sort of story Joe Weaver liked and she felt the guilt that always crept up on her when she found herself turning someone’s misfortune into ‘entertainment’ for the nation’s breakfast tables.
Edward’s expression was grim. He was horrified at what he had seen and he feared this death would not be the last. He was itching to get back to Lord Benyon and make sure he was safe. As soon as he had left the freezer room it had struck him that, if Barrett had been killed, it must be because he was Benyon’s protector and that must mean Benyon himself was in grave danger – might, indeed, already be dead. When, at last, the doctor and several ship’s officers arrived to relieve him, Edward raced up to A Deck, all the time chanting curses to himself. He had been given a job to do and, not twelve hours into the mission, he had already failed. It was with a sigh of relief that, entering Benyon’s cabin, he saw his charge working peacefully at his desk, his pen in his hand and books and papers spread about him like feathers in a nest.
What he saw in Edward’s face, however, made Benyon go pale. When he heard what had happened to Barrett, he took off his spectacles and buried his head in his hands.
‘This is too awful. The poor boy! And I happen to know that he was engaged to be married.’
‘But you’re all right, that’s the main thing,’ Edward gasped.
‘No,’ Benyon said fiercely, ‘that’s not the main thing. The main thing is a young man has been butchered for my sake . . . protecting me. It should not have happened.’
Edward apologized. ‘I did not mean to sound heartless. I would give anything to have prevented it. It was a horrible thing and I shall never forget what I have just seen, but your mission might help us win a war. Nothing can be more important than that.’
‘I don’t blame
you
, Edward. Don’t think I was questioning your judgement. I just can’t –’
At that moment Marcus Fern came in, looking scared. ‘The Purser telephoned me and said something bad had happened and I was to come here. Thank God you’re all right, Benyon. I thought you might have been taken ill.’
Edward gave him a concise account of the discovery of Barrett’s body. When he had finished, the three men looked at one another in consternation. Simultaneously, they recognized they were in a trap. The
Queen Mary
had seemed so safe. They had been cocooned in luxury, lulled into a false sense of security, but now they realized that, behind a veneer of civilization at its most artificial, there lurked very real danger. The worst of it was that, for the next few days, there was no escape . . . no turning back. It was feasible, Edward supposed, to have a warship rendezvous with them and take off Benyon but the logistics were daunting. He wasn’t even sure exactly how someone was conveyed from one ship to another in mid-ocean. He had a vision of ropes and a man bobbing over the waves on some sort of boatswain’s chair. He shuddered. In any case, the publicity of such a manoeuvre would be just what Benyon did not want. No, they must go on but never let their man out of sight.
‘Thank God I brought my man, Fenton, with me. He’s totally trustworthy and with your permission,
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