David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

Valentine kept his eyes on the water as if he half-expected to spot Pinker. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Whoever he is, he’s a cold-blooded devil. Not so much as a twitch out of any of them. Of course,’ he added, ‘Pater knew that you were alive since he’d already seen you. Did he looked surprised?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘I suppose we might have it wrong and our man’s one of the crew.’

‘The crew? How could they have got a man on the crew so quickly?’

Valentine turned around and leaned against the rail.

‘If they got wind of the Admiralty releasing the steamer for Helsingfors, they might have got a man to join just to cover all eventualities. It might be that they needed to get one of their own back to Russia. Some Chekist who’s cover has been blown in England. Like your Yurkas.’

‘Chekist?’

‘ Chrezvychaynaya komissiya , old man,’ Valentine said in Russian. ‘Cheka, for short. They’re the Bolsheviks’ political police. Nasty crowd, best avoided.’

If they were anything like Yurkas, Paul was sure they were.

‘How long are we going to circle around looking?’ he asked, not caring to dwell on the thought. ‘I mean, we don’t want to find the body do we. Or attract U-boats.’

‘Protocol, old man, that’s all. The captain has to show he tried. Not that there’s much prospect of spotting poor old Pinker now. He’ll be miles away.’

‘I suppose we’ll be late getting to Copenhagen now,’ Paul said, imagining that if the sea kept running the way it was Pinker might beat them to it.

Pater approached and Valentine leaned towards Paul.

‘Here comes that bible-thumper. I’ll keep you in sight in case he tries anything,’ he said, then abruptly moved past the lifeboats hanging on their davits and around the corner.

‘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.