5
ONCE BOB BINGHAM had finished dressing, he checked himself in the long mirror inside the wardrobe door. His double-breasted, wide-lapelled dinner jacket was unlikely to come back into fashion in the near future, as his wife regularly reminded him. He’d pointed out to her that the suit had been good enough for his father when he was chairman of Bingham’s Fish Paste, and therefore should be good enough for him.
Priscilla didn’t agree, but then they hadn’t agreed on much lately. Bob still blamed her close friend, Lady Virginia Fenwick, for Jessica Clifton’s untimely death, and the fact that their son Clive—who had been engaged to Jessica at the time—hadn’t been back to Mablethorpe Hall since that fateful day. His wife was na?ve and overawed when it came to Virginia, but he still lived in the hope that Priscilla would finally come to her senses and see the damned woman for what she was, which would allow them to once again come together as a family. But that, he feared, would not be for some time, and in any case Bob had more immediate problems on his mind. Tonight, they would be on public display, as guests at the chairman’s table. He wasn’t at all confident that Priscilla would be able to remain on her best behavior for more than a few minutes. He just hoped they’d get back to their cabin unscathed.
Bob admired Emma Clifton, “the Boadicea of Bristol” as she was known by friend and foe alike. He suspected that if she had been aware of the nickname, she would have worn it as a badge of honor.
Emma had slipped a pour mémoire under their cabin door earlier that day, suggesting they meet in the Queen’s Lounge around 7:30 p.m., before going into dinner. Bob checked his watch. It was already ten to eight, and there was still no sign of his wife, although he could hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. He began to pace around the cabin, barely able to hide his irritation.
Bob was well aware that Lady Virginia had brought a libel suit against the chairman, not something he was likely to forget as he was sitting just behind her when the exchange took place. During question time at this year’s AGM, Lady Virginia had asked from the floor if it was true that one of the directors of Barrington’s had sold all his shares with the intention of bringing down the company. She was of course referring to Cedric Hardcastle’s little ploy to save the company from a hostile takeover by Don Pedro Martinez.
Emma had responded robustly, reminding Lady Virginia that it was Major Fisher, her representative on the board, who had sold her shares and then bought them back a fortnight later in order to damage the company’s reputation, while making a handsome profit for his client.
“You’ll be hearing from my solicitor” was all Virginia had to say on the subject, and a week later Emma did. Bob wasn’t in any doubt which camp his wife would be supporting if the action ever came to court. Were Priscilla to pick up any useful ammunition during dinner that might assist her friend’s cause, he was sure it would be passed on to Virginia’s legal team within moments of them stepping ashore in Avonmouth. And both sides were well aware that if Emma were to lose the case, it wouldn’t be simply her reputation that would be in tatters, but she would also undoubtedly have to resign as chairman of Barrington’s.
He hadn’t told Priscilla anything about the IRA or what had been discussed during the emergency board meeting on that first morning of the voyage, other than to repeat the story about the Home Fleet, and although she clearly didn’t believe him, Priscilla learned nothing other than that Sebastian had been appointed to the board.
After a day’s shopping in New York which would cost Bob several crates of fish paste, she didn’t mention it again. However, Bob was afraid she might raise it with Emma over dinner, and if she did, he would have to deftly change the subject. Thank God Lady Virginia hadn’t carried out her threat to join them on the voyage, because if she had, she wouldn’t have rested until she’d found out exactly what had happened in the early hours of that first night.
Priscilla eventually emerged from the bathroom, but not until ten past eight.
* * *
“Perhaps we should go through to dinner,” Emma suggested.
“But aren’t the Binghams meant to be joining us?” said Harry.
“Yes,” said Emma, checking her watch. “More than half an hour ago.”
“Don’t rise, darling,” said Harry firmly. “You’re the chairman of the company, and you mustn’t let Priscilla see that she’s annoyed you, because that’s exactly what she’s hoping for.” Emma was about to protest when he added, “And be sure you don’t say anything over dinner that Virginia could use in court, because there’s no doubt which side Priscilla Bingham is on.”
With all the other problems Emma had faced during the past week, she’d put aside the possible court case, and as she hadn’t heard from Virginia’s solicitors for several months, she’d even begun to wonder if she’d quietly dropped the action. The problem was, Virginia didn’t do anything quietly.
Emma was about to place her order with the head waiter when Harry stood up.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Priscilla, “but I lost all track of time.”
“Not a problem,” said Harry as he pulled back her chair and waited until she was comfortably seated.
“Perhaps we should order,” said Emma, clearly wishing to remind her guest how long they had been kept waiting.
Priscilla took her time as she turned the pages of the leather-bound menu, and changed her mind several times before she finally made her choice. Once the waiter had taken her order, Harry asked her if she’d enjoyed her day in New York.
“Oh yes, there are so many wonderful shops on Fifth Avenue that have so much more to offer than London, although I did find the whole experience quite exhausting. In fact, when I got back to the ship, I simply collapsed on the bed and fell asleep. And you, Mr. Clifton, did you manage to do any shopping?”
“No, I had an appointment with my publishers, while Emma went in search of a long-lost cousin.”
“Of course, I’d quite forgotten you’re the one who writes novels. I just don’t find the time to read books,” said Priscilla as a bowl of piping hot tomato soup was placed in front of her. “I didn’t order soup,” she said, looking up at the waiter. “I asked for the smoked salmon.”
“I’m sorry, madam,” said the waiter, who removed the soup. While he was still in earshot, Priscilla said, “I suppose it must be quite difficult to recruit experienced staff for a cruise ship.”
“I hope you won’t mind if we start,” said Emma as she picked up her soup spoon.
“Did you catch up with your cousin?” asked Bob.
“Unfortunately not. He was visiting Connecticut, so I joined Harry later, and we were lucky enough to get a couple of tickets for an afternoon concert at Lincoln Center.”
“Who was performing?” asked Bob as a plate of smoked salmon was placed in front of Priscilla.
“Leonard Bernstein, who was conducting his Candide overture, before he played a Mozart piano concerto.”
“I just don’t know how you find the time,” said Priscilla between mouthfuls.
Emma was about to say she didn’t spend her life shopping, but looked up to see Harry frowning at her.
“I once saw Bernstein conducting the LSO at the Royal Festival Hall,” said Bob. “Brahms. Quite magnificent.”
“And did you accompany Priscilla on her exhausting shopping trip up and down Fifth Avenue?” asked Emma.
“No, I checked out the lower East Side, to see if there was any point in trying to break into the American market.”
“And your conclusion?” asked Harry.
“The Americans aren’t quite ready for Bingham’s fish paste.”
“So which countries are ready?” asked Harry.
“Only Russia and India, if the truth be known. And they come with their own problems.”
“Like what?” asked Emma, sounding genuinely interested.
“The Russians don’t like paying their bills, and the Indians often can’t.”
“Perhaps you have a one-product problem?” Emma suggested.
“I’ve thought about diversifying, but—”
“Can we possibly talk about something other than fish paste,” said Priscilla. “After all, we are meant to be on holiday.”
“Of course,” said Harry. “How is Clive?” he asked, regretting his words immediately.
“He’s just fine, thank you,” said Bob, jumping in quickly. “And you must both be so proud of Sebastian being invited to join the board.”
Emma smiled.
“Well, that’s hardly a surprise,” said Priscilla. “Let’s face it, if your mother is the chairman of the company, and your family owns a majority of the stock, frankly you could appoint a cocker spaniel to the board and the rest of the directors would wag their tails.”
Harry thought Emma was about to explode, but luckily her mouth was full, so a long silence followed.
“Is that rare?” Priscilla demanded as a steak was placed in front of her.
The waiter checked her order. “No, madam, it’s medium.”
“I ordered rare. I couldn’t have made it clearer. Take it away and try again.”
The waiter deftly removed the plate without comment, as Priscilla turned to Harry. “Can you make a living as a writer?”
“It’s tough,” admitted Harry, “not least because there are so many excellent authors out there. However—”
“Still, you married a rich woman, so it really doesn’t matter all that much, does it?”
This silenced Harry, but not Emma. “Well, at last we’ve discovered something we have in common, Priscilla.”
“I agree,” said Priscilla, not missing a beat, “but then I’m old-fashioned, and was brought up to believe it’s the natural order of things for a man to take care of a woman. It somehow doesn’t seem right the other way around.” She took a sip of wine, and Emma was about to respond when she added with a warm smile, “I think you’ll find the wine is corked.”
“I thought it was excellent,” said Bob.
“Dear Robert still doesn’t know the difference between a claret and a burgundy. Whenever we throw a dinner party, it’s always left to me to select the wine. Waiter!” she said, turning to the sommelier. “We’ll need another bottle of the Merlot.”
“Yes of course, madam.”
“I don’t suppose you get to the north of England much,” said Bob.
“Not that often,” said Emma. “But a branch of my family hails from the Highlands.”
“Mine too,” said Priscilla. “I was born a Campbell.”
“I think you’ll find that’s the Lowlands,” said Emma, as Harry kicked her under the table.
“I’m sure you’re right, as always,” said Priscilla. “So I know you won’t mind me asking you a personal question.” Bob put down his knife and fork and looked anxiously across at his wife. “What really happened on the first night of the voyage? Because I know the Home Fleet was nowhere to be seen.”
“How can you possibly know that, when you were fast asleep at the time?” said Bob.
“So what do you think happened, Priscilla?” asked Emma, reverting to a tactic her brother often used when he didn’t want to answer a question.
“Some passengers are saying that one of the turbines exploded.”
“The engine room is open for inspection by the passengers at any time,” said Emma. “In fact, I believe there was a well-attended guided tour this morning.”
“I also heard that a bomb exploded in your cabin,” said Priscilla, undaunted.
“You are most welcome to visit our cabin at any time so you can correct the ill-informed rumormonger who suggested that.”
“And someone else told me,” said Priscilla, plowing on, “that a group of Irish terrorists boarded the ship at around midnight—”
“Only to find we were fully booked, and as there wasn’t a cabin available, they were made to walk the plank and swim all the way back to Belfast?”
“And did you hear the one about some Martians flying in from outer space and landing inside one of the funnels?” said Harry, as the waiter reappeared with a rare steak.
Priscilla gave it no more than a glance, before she rose from her place. “You’re all hiding something,” she said, dropping her napkin on the table, “and I intend to find out what it is before we reach Avonmouth.”
The three of them watched as she glided serenely across the floor and out of the dining room.
“I apologize,” said Bob. “That turned out even worse than I feared.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Harry. “My wife snores.”
“I do not,” said Emma, as the two men burst out laughing.
“I’d give half my fortune to have the relationship you two enjoy.”
“I’ll take it,” said Harry. This time it was Emma’s turn to kick her husband under the table.
“Well, I’m grateful for one thing, Bob,” said Emma, reverting to her chairman’s voice. “Your wife clearly has no idea what really happened on our first night at sea. But if she ever found out…”