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  The Captain’s Table

  The Captain’s Table

  © Vivian Stuart, 1953

  © eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

  ISBN: 978-9979-64-408-8

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

  All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

  CHAPTER I

  Outside the door of the Purser’s cabin, Chief Steward Ogilvie hesitated, glancing quickly at the lists in his hand before tapping discreetly on the polished wood. From inside the cabin a voice gruffly bade him come in. The Purser looked up frowning, but his face cleared when he saw who it was and his thin, sardonic lips twisted into a smile.

  “Ah, Ogilvie! ”

  “I’ve the list for the Captain’s Table, sir.” Ogilvie leaned forward and placed the sheet of paper on the desk. He had a quick, nervous manner which, the Purser thought, looking at him, was deceptive. Ogilvie was a young man for the position he held but he was extremely capable, a strict and ruthless disciplinarian and well aware of his own worth. His diffident politeness was a habit, a legacy from pre-war days when he had been a footman in ducal service.

  “I thought, sir—” Ogilvie began. “In view of Captain Blair’s— er—” He stopped, flushing a little under his tan.

  The Purser regarded him thoughtfully from behind the heavy horn-rimmed glasses which gave his broad, red face its oddly benevolent appearance, belying the cynical smile.

  He said: “Yes?” in a tone that discouraged confidences and Ogilvie, practised in the art of reading his fellow men and studying the foibles of his superiors, assumed a politely blank expression and replied woodenly: “I have been led to understand, sir, by the Captain’s own steward, Rickaby, that Captain Blair prefers to take most of his meals in his own quarters, rather than in the dining saloon, sir.”

  The Purser’s raised eyebrows were the only sign of surprise he gave and his grunt was noncommittal. He gave his attention to the list, struck out one name and substituted another and then looked up at the steward inquiringly.

  “Who is this Miss Catherine Duncan you have down?” His pencil was poised above the name.

  Ogilvie said deferentially: “Miss Duncan represented Great Britain in the Winter Olympics at Oslo, Mr. Forbes. At ski-ing. I understand from Rickaby, sir, that Captain Blair—”

  “Is interested in winter sports, I take it,” John Forbes put in dryly. He returned the list to the steward. “Very well, Ogilvie. You seem to have displayed your usual efficiency— it’s a very tactful choice. But I think we’ll need to put Lady Carter at the First Officer’s table, if the Captain isn’t going to take many meals in the saloon—she likes asking questions.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ogilvie presented the other lists, his sleek dark head bent over the desk as he added Lady Carter’s name to the top one. “With your approval, Mr. Forbes, I thought Sir Harper Gillis should also be placed at the First Officer’s table.”

  “Oh, why? He’s a surgeon, isn’t he? Surely the Doctor’s table would be more suitable?”

  “Quite, sir. That was what I thought at first, too, sir.” Ogilvie never argued. “But you see, sir, it appears that Sir Harper isn’t— er— a qualified medical practitioner in the accepted sense. He’s what is known as a homeopath, sir, and a manipulative surgeon. A very distinguished gentleman indeed, sir but all the same, I thought, under the circumstances, that the First Officer’s table would perhaps be the better choice.”

  Again the Purser grunted, but this time it was an approving grunt. He leafed through the other lists rapidly and returned to the first. “I see. Who’s this Colonel Urquhart you’ve put at the Captain’s Table?”

  “He’s a young gentleman, sir. A rubber planter, booked to Penang. I thought it would round off the table, sir. Miss Duncan is young and Miss Hope-Scott. Lady Hope-Scott is the widow of Sir Jasper Hope-Scott, sir, who was a recent Governor-General. I could hardly put her at any other table, sir, could I? And the son is an M.P.”

  “Quite. Now what about my table, Ogilvie?”

  There was a smile on Ogilvie’s lips. “I think you’ll find it—interesting, sir.”

  The Purser ran his eye over the list.

  “Right.” He gathered up the papers and passed them to the attentive Ogilvie. “You’ve done very well. Thank you, Ogilvie.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ogilvie’s smile was a trifle smug, his dignified inclination of the head almost a bow. The Purser watched his departure with irritated amusement. The fellow was almost too good at his job, a mine of information about the passengers already and the Pilot was still on the bridge, the long voyage scarcely begun. As the door closed softly behind him, the Purser sighed. He wondered, as he always did at the start of each trip, how things would go, whether the voyage, as far as the passengers were concerned, would be pleasantly uneventful or the reverse. But most of all he wondered, a little resentfully, how the Claymore new Master would justify the Company’s faith in him—even whether he would justify the unprecedented rapidity of his elevation to the command of what was regarded, by all its officers, as the finest of the Company’s ships. It was unusual, to say the least of it, to take a very junior commander from one of the smaller freighters and appoint him, over the heads of a dozen others, to the command of a 20,000-ton passenger liner.

  Officially, of course, the appointment was temporary. Captain Blair had been brought in as a stop-gap, to take the place of Captain Maitland, taken so suddenly and tragically ill on the eve of sailing.

  But—and John Forbes sighed again and reached for his pipe—whatever his war record, whatever his ability as a seaman, Blair wasn’t a liner officer and never had been. He wasn’t going to find it easy. Passengers, as he had learnt, in twenty years’ experience of them, were the devil if you didn’t know how to handle them. And taking all his meals in his own quarters, as, it seemed, Captain Blair planned to do, would not endear the Claymore’s new Master to her passengers.

  The Captain’s Table had come to be a tradition on board the Claymore, the centre of the ship’s social life, with distinguished passengers counting themselves honoured by the invitation to sit there.

  It would be different this voyage and, under the circumstances, Ogilvie’s choice had been wise—the First Officer would have to deputise, socially at any rate, for the man who had superseded him.

  His pipe alight, the Purser picked up the duplicate list which Ogilvie had left for him and once again he frowned over the name of Catherine Duncan. It seemed odd for a ship’s master to be interested in winter sports—and then he remembered. There’d been a brother, years younger than Captain Blair, who’d made quite a name for himself as a climber, until he’d been killed in the Swiss Alps last year. In that case, perhaps Ogilvie hadn’t been as tactful as he had thought him. Captain Blair would not want to be reminded of the tragedy. Forbes half rose and then subsided. Time enough to alter it, should it seem advisable. The first night, people sat anywhere they liked and no one changed and, in any case, a copy of the list would be submitted to the Captain for his approval.

  Ogilvie stood outside the Captain’s day cabin at that moment, the list in his hand. His knock was perfunctory, for he knew that the Captain was on the bridge and likely to remain there for at least another hour. Rickaby, the Captain’s personal steward, admitted him.

  Rickaby, like Captain Blair, had c
ome from the freighter Cormorant, where he had enjoyed a position of much greater responsibility than he could possibly expect to hold in the Claymore but, if he were aware of this fact, it did not appear to be worrying him. He was a small, apple-cheeked man, of uncertain age, with a pair of shrewd grey eyes, a ready smile and a strong Glasgow accent. He welcomed the Chief Steward with courtesy but without awe, and Ogilvie, recognising the man’s self-assurance, as well as his usefulness, greeted him as an equal, his tone friendly.

  “I’ve brought the list for the Captain’s table,” he announced. “If you’d be so good as to find out if he approves of it for me.”

  Rickaby took the list. “Aye, I’ll dae that, Muster Ogilvie.” He was unpacking, his officer’s uniform jackets over his arm. Ogilvie glimpsed the ribbons of the D.S.O. and the D.S.C. on one of them and was impressed by these and, even more, by the unmistakable cut of the jacket and the quality of the cloth.

  He fingered it, naming a well-known naval outfitter, and Rickaby grinned. “Oh, aye! Captain Blair thinks there’s nae-body tae touch them. He’ll go to nae other body and has not, all the time I’ve known him. Which is just about thirteen years.”

  “You were with him during the war?” Ogilvie asked curiously.

  “Aye, maist of the time I was.” Rickaby did not enlarge on this and the Chief Steward, recalled to the many and various duties he had yet to perform by the sight of a handsome travelling clock on the Captain’s desk, started towards the door, when his eyes lit on a framed photograph, which stood beside the clock, and he halted. It was of a young man, dressed in ski-ing kit, the peaked cap set at a jaunty angle, to reveal a face of striking intelligence and charm. He stood looking at it and Rickaby, following his gaze, said soberly:

  “Yon’s his brother. He was killed last year, in Switzerland.”

  “I think I read about it, in the papers. I remember this photograph, it was in the Mirror, wasn’t it? But—” the Chief Steward was puzzled. “Was his name not Kistler? And was he not studying to be a doctor?”

  “You’ve a good memory, Muster Ogilvie, for ye’re perfectly right Muster Kistler was Captain Blair’s half-brother. A good deal younger, ye’ll understand. Verra attached tae him, the Captain was. It was a sad blow when the laddie was killed.”

  Ogilvie murmured something conventional and took his leave. He prided himself upon his memory, which was like a card index. He seldom forgot a name or a face, but now something was puzzling him. Somewhere, quite recently, he had seen that photograph of the Captain’s young halfbrother, though, at the time, since he had not connected it with Captain Blair, he had done no more than register the fact that it was a duplicate of the one published in the newspapers at the time of the boy’s tragic death. Now he racked his brains but could not recall where it was he had seen it, though he could remember that it had been in a leather travelling frame. Walking briskly in the direction of the dining saloon, past the gleaming, white-painted doors of the cabins on B Deck, Ogilvie stood aside to permit a passenger to enter his cabin and, as the door swung inwards, he remembered where he had seen the photograph.

  It had been soon after the Claymore had sailed and he had glimpsed it through the half-open door of one of the cabins, though which cabin, even which deck, he had no idea. But it had been a woman’s, for, besides the photograph, his brain had registered the fact that a woman’s dressing-case had stood, opened, somewhere near it.

  It was an odd coincidence. And when it was added to the fact that the First Officer had made the suggestion that Miss Catherine Duncan should be seated at the Captain’s table, it became even more odd. Unless, of course, the photograph he’d seen had been in her cabin. That would be it. That would account for Mr. Morley’s suggestion. Ogilvie was smiling as he entered the dining saloon. He liked to think that his tables were well arranged.

  CHAPTER II

  Catherine Duncan had been allotted a two-berth cabin on the starboard side of B Deck. Starboard and amidships. She was not an experienced sailor and was pleased to find her cabin so well situated. She had been fortunate in this, if not —she made a rueful grimace at herself in the mirror—in her cabin-mate, who, having come on board early, had purloined most of the available space, as well as the lower berth.

  So far, all that Catherine knew about her was her name— Dr. L. R. Grant, which was boldly emblazoned on the expensive pigskin suitcases scattered so untidily about the cabin—and the fact that she was travelling to Hong Kong, Catherine’s own destination.

  Friends had come to see her off and Catherine had stayed with them, on deck, until the last possible minute, dreading the parting. She hadn’t felt like lunch and had done her unpacking whilst her cabin-mate was in the dining saloon, finding a sheltered corner on deck afterwards, where she had remained until disturbed by lifeboat drill. And now, judging by the chaos, her unknown companion had gone to bath and intended, on her return, to change into the attractive, flowered-silk afternoon dress which hung from the rail of Catherine’s bunk. If the dress were anything to go by, Dr. Grant was tall, slim and possessed of a very adequate income. The dress was a French model and Catherine could only guess at its price. A soft knock at the door heralded the stewardess, a buxom, pleasant-faced woman with a mass of dark, wavy hair. She came in smiling.

  “You’ll be Miss Duncan? I’ve been looking for you but you weren’t here when I was in before. What time would you like your morning tea, Miss Duncan?”

  Catherine returned the smile. “When can I have it?” she asked.

  “Any time at all from six forty-five. The other lady asked for hers at seven thirty.”

  “Then that will suit me, thank you, stewardess.”

  The stewardess made a note in the small pocket diary she carried.

  “You shall have it. Breakfast is from eight until nine thirty. Now, is there anything you would like?” Catherine shook her head and the stewardess went on: “You’re a wee bit crowded in here, are you not? I’ll ask Dr. Grant if we can send some of these cases down to the baggage room, for you’ll not be able to move with so many cluttering up the place. No doubt by to-morrow she will have been able to unpack them—”

  The cabin door was flung open and a tall, fair-haired girl of about Catherine’s own age, wrapped in a pale-blue quilted silk dressing-gown, came thrusting past the stewardess with a brief apology, to halt at the sight of Catherine and stand regarding her with unconcealed interest.

  “So you’re the elusive Miss Duncan? I must say, I’ve been having the horrors, wondering what you’d be like. I mean, when one’s going to have to share a tiny cabin for weeks on end with a completely strange female, one does rather worry, doesn’t one?” Her smile robbed her words of any intention to offend. “I do hope you don’t snore?”

  “No,” said Catherine, laughing. “I don’t think so.”

  “Good, then that nightmare is disposed of.” She turned to the stewardess. “I know what you’re going to say—you want me to get rid of some of these suitcases, don’t you? Well, I would, honestly, if I could find anywhere to put my things when I’d unpacked them. But there simply isn’t, is there? The cupboards are absolutely crammed as it is and I’m afraid I’ve taken up some of Miss Duncan’s hanging space, as well as my own. They ought to provide more cupboards on these ships.”

  “All my other ladies seem to find them quite adequate, Doctor,” the stewardess said severely. “But the baggage room will be open daily during the voyage, except on Sundays, so I think you’ll need to let the steward take some of them down for you to-morrow morning.”

  She did not wait for the fair-haired girl’s reply.

  When the door closed behind her, Dr. Grant made a face.

  “Too, too governessy, isn’t she? Oh, well, I’ll have to see what I can do to-morrow. Tie a string from your bunk to the porthole and hang some of my things from that, I suppose. There doesn’t appear to be anywhere else I can put them.” She dumped her wet bath-t
owel on the wash-basin and flung herself full length on her bunk, reaching for a packet of cigarettes on the shelf above her head. “Smoke?”

  “I don’t think I will just now,” Catherine answered, getting up to pass her the only ashtray the cabin boasted.

  “Thanks. I say, I hope you don’t mind my pinching the lower berth? I suppose I really ought to have tossed you for it or something equally Lower Fourth, but I’m the most appalling sailor and anyway, when I did stake my claim, I hadn’t met you, so of course I hadn’t the least compunction in doing it. But if you object violently, I’m quite prepared to toss you for it.”

  Catherine’s lips twitched. She was beginning to change her mind about her travelling companion. Dr. Grant was possessed of a sense of humour and a great deal of charm and she felt, despite the untidiness, she was going to enjoy her company. A long voyage, in her present state of dull misery, was something she had been dreading and had to force herself to face. When she had made her decision, it had seemed the best—if not the only—thing to do, to make a clean break, to get right away from all the torturing, familiar things which had made up her world and Hugh’s. She had stayed for the Winter Olympics—that was something she owed Hugh and could not refuse to do but, now that they were over, there was nothing to keep her in England.

  Hugh was dead. It was no use brooding. And her father wanted her. He was lonely, too.

  From force of habit, Catherine looked over to the dressing-table and then remembered, with a pang, that she had put Hugh’s photograph back in her suitcase. She hadn’t wanted to answer questions about him, should her cabinmate prove inquisitive. For perhaps the hundredth time, the torturing, never-to-be-answered questions came, unbidden, into her mind.

  Had Hugh’s death been an accident? Had the rumours, the whispers she had heard, on her return to Switzerland after his funeral, been true? He had been so very skilled and experienced a climber. Why had he fallen where he had? Had he fallen deliberately? And that letter his half-brother had written her...had the accusations in that been true? The cruel, bitter accusations which had hurt her so much... no, no! They weren’t true.