The False Inspector Dew

She went on deck and promenaded with a woman whose husband was delayed in the smoking room. She took part in the lifeboat drill at three o'clock. She found the deck steward and reserved a chair on the port side. By half past three she estimated that she had spoken to eight people and given her new name to five. At least another ten must have overheard her using it.

The next stage in the plan had to be faced. During lunch she had experienced the utmost difficulty stopping herself from rushing from the restaurant to Lydia's stateroom to be with Walter, no matter what had happened there. Her afternoon alone had altered that. She had disciplined herself to use the time as Walter had suggested, establishing herself as Lydia. The concentration necessary had made great demands. She had tried to banish Walter and the stateroom from her mind. Although the thoughts resurfaced after each encounter with a steward or a passenger, they were more detached. The effort to make contact with other people, unknown, unknowing people, had insulated her from Walter. A kind of trepidation had crept into the space between them. She dreaded knocking on that door.

Stateroom 89 on D Deck.

He had told her several times. She knew exactly where to find it. Her nerves were still so active that she had to consult the passenger list on the board outside the purser's office. Mrs Lydia Baranov… 89.

She found the stairs and saw the notice Staterooms 70 to 90. A pulse was beating in her forehead. Her hands were icy. She moved slowly up the corridor, counting off the doors. 89. 'Do Not Disturb'.

She stopped. She looked along the way she had come. She was quite alone. Her mouth was dry. That pulse was throbbing harder than the engines of the ship.

She closed her eyes and tapped her knuckles on the door. Too softly. She tried again. She heard a movement from inside.

The door opened. Walter looked out. He was a changed man. The colour had drained from his face. There were lines of tension across his forehead and at the edges of his mouth. His eyes seemed to have sunk in their sockets.

He said nothing. He simply opened the door and let Alma in.

Her eyes raced over the room. Nothing horrid or disordered was in view. A few of Lydia's things. Hairbrush and comb, scent bottles and vanity bag on the dressing table. Pink slippers by the bed. A newspaper on the floor. Tissue paper from her packing neatly folded on the writing table. The cabin trunk against the wall beside the chest of drawers. It was closed.

The door clicked as Walter pushed it shut.

Alma turned and asked him, is it done? Did you..?'

He dipped his head the merest fraction.

At this moment she had planned to fling her arms about his neck and press her face to his. It was to be the turning point in their romance, the moment of liberation. He was free at last. It was like the final chapter of all the novels that had moved her most.

Yet something in her or in Walter held her back. She could not bring herself to touch him. She told herself that he had done this thing for her, that he was brave and cool and resolute, that it confirmed his love as certainly as any ordeal man had undergone in quest of woman. But it had marked him. He was a murderer. Those hands had been in touch with death. Was it possible to love a man and be repelled by him?

He seemed to sense her feeling. He made no move towards her. He asked, 'What did you do? Did you go to lunch? Did you tell people you were Lydia?'

'Of course!' She launched into a copious account of her afternoon. Talking was a release. She found herself imparting confidence by glossing over her attacks of nerves. She felt a duty to restore this shaken man to something like his former self. Anything to suppress the sense of shock that made her shrink from him.

He appeared to listen avidly. He said, 'My dear, I thank you. You have done wonderfully. What time is it now?'

'Almost four. We'll be in Cherbourg in an hour. Then across the ocean to America!'

'I don't think we should stay in here together.'

The panic held her in its grip again. 'I don't think I could be in here alone. Walter, I'm not as brave as you.' She eyed the trunk. 'I couldn't!'

'There's no need. I'll stay. There are things to do. I want to find her personal papers.'

'I suppose one of us has to be here.'

'We can't take risks.'

'You looked so dreadful when I came in. Was it more gruesome than you expected?'

He shook his head. 'Not the way you mean. It wasn't the physical part. You can do it a dozen times in your imagination, you can plan it to the last detail, but the reality is different. Give me time, and I'll get over it.' He extended his hand towards her.

If she could only have taken it! Her own hand went to her throat and fiddled with her necklace. 'Yes,' she said in a low voice, 'we have to come to terms with what we have done. I think I will need time, too.'

He said, 'Time is something we do have, my dear. Why don't you go up on deck and watch us coming in to Cherbourg? The more you're seen, the better. By six we should be under way again, and you'll be wanting to get dressed for dinner. She bought some beautiful new dresses. You'll want to make sure they fit.'

Her eyes went to the trunk again.

He slowly shook his head. 'She unpacked everything.'

'Yes. You are sure they are new?'

'She's never worn them.'

12

Normandy from the sea was a dazzling strip of green with white and grey cottages above blue-pebbled beaches. Cherbourg was a fishing port. It was not built for transatlantic liners. They moored inside the breakwater of the Grande Rade, an outer harbour. Two tenders brought the passengers and luggage. The evening sun flashed on the water. The new arrivals waved to the passengers already in occupation.

Paul Westerfield found the Livingstone Cordells at the rail watching the activity from the boat deck. Barbara saw him first.

'Paul! It's really nice to see you again. Are you going to join us?'

She smiled so warmly that it shamed him. i'd like to, but I have a problem.'

'What's that?'

Marjorie leaned towards her daughter and murmured, ' 'Who's that?' is the proper question, honey.'

Barbara followed her mother's look to where Poppy was standing some yards away. 'I thought Poppy left the ship at Southampton!'

Paul nodded and tried to cover his embarrassment. 'She was supposed to. Her timing was a little wrong. She's going to be put down here, only I have this problem I mentioned. My billfold has gone.'

'What do you mean, gone?' said Marjorie. 'Stolen?'

'No, no, I can't say that. I lost it somewhere. I've been all over looking for it. Barbara, you were with us in the Verandah Cafe. I thought I kept my jacket on. Poppy thinks I could have taken it off after we stopped dancing. The billfold could have dropped out.'

Barbara shook her head. 'I don't have any recollection that you took it off. But I left before you two. Have you asked the stewards in the Cafe?'

'Yes, and my cabin steward and the deck stewards. No joy at all.'

'That's too bad!' said Marjorie sympathetically. 'I guess there must be a whole lot of money in there.'

'That wouldn't bother me, only Poppy has to get back to England. It's my fault that she stayed on board.'

'You need money?' said Marjorie without the slightest pause. 'How much do you want? Livy, get out your billfold and give Mr Westerfield whatever he needs.'