‘Mr McKinnon is not an ordinary seaman. He’s an extraordinary seaman and he’s never pestered anyone in his life. Let’s have Janet along here to see if she bears out your preposterous allegations.’
‘You—you know her name.’
‘Of course I know her name.’ Bowen sounded weary. It was not the moment, he thought, to mention the fact that until five minutes ago he had never heard of anyone called Janet. ‘They come from the same island and have much to talk about. It would help, Miss Morrison, if you took as much interest in your staff as I do in mine.’
It was a good exit line, Bowen thought, but he wasn’t particularly proud of himself. In spite of the way she spoke he rather liked the girl because he suspected that the image she projected was not the real one and that there might be some very good reason for this: but she was not Archie McKinnon.
The Chief Officer, one Geraint Kennet, an unusual name but one that he maintained came from an ancient aristocratic lineage, was awaiting Bowen’s arrival on the bridge. Kennet was a Welshman, lean of figure and of countenance, very dark and very irreverent.
‘You are lost, Mr Kennet?’ Bowen said. Bowen had long ago abandoned the old habit of addressing a Chief Officer as ‘Mister’.
‘When the hour strikes, sir, Kennet is there. I hear of alarms and excursions from young Jamie here.’ ‘Young Jamie’ was Third Officer Batesman. ‘Something sinister afoot, I gather.’
‘You gather rightly. Just how sinister I don’t know.’ He described what little had happened. ‘So, two electrical breakdowns, if you could call them that, and a third in the process of being investigated.’
‘And it would be naïve to think that the third is not connected with the other two?’
‘Very naïve.’
‘This presages something ominous.’
‘Don’t they teach you English in those Welsh schools.’
‘No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. You have reached a conclusion, not, perhaps, a very nice one?’
The phone rang. Batesman took it and handed the phone to Bowen who listened briefly, thanked the caller and hung up.
‘Jamieson. In the cold room, this time. How could anyone get into the cold room? Cook’s got the only key.’
‘Easily,’ Kennet said. ‘If a man was a saboteur, trained in his art—if that’s the word I want—one would expect him to be an expert picklock or at least to carry a set of skeleton keys around with him. With respect, sir, I hardly think that’s the point. When will this villain strike again?’
‘When indeed. Flannelfoot—that’s Jamieson’s term for him—seems to be a villain of some resource and foresight. It is more than likely that he has some further surprises. Jamieson is of the same mind. If there’s another power failure when they switch on again he says he’s going to go over every inch of wiring with his bridge-megger, whatever that is.’
‘Some sort of instrument for detecting voltage leaks—you know, breaks in a circuit. It’s occurred to me—’
Chief Radio Officer Spenser appeared at the hatchway of his wireless office, paper in hand. ‘Message from the Andover, sir.’
Bowen read out: ‘Continued absence of lights very serious. Essential expedite matters. Has saboteur been apprehended?’
Kennet said: ‘Cue, I think for angry spluttering.’
‘Man’s a fool,’ Bowen said. ‘Commander Warrington, I mean, captain of the frigate. Spenser, send: “If you have any members of the Special Branch or CID with you they are welcome aboard. If not, kindly refrain from sending pointless signals. What the hell do you think we’re trying to do?” ’
Kennet said: ‘In the circumstances, sir, a very restrained signal. As I was about to say—’
The phone rang again. Batesman took the call, listened, acknowledged, hung up and turned to the Captain.
‘Engine-room, sir. Another malfunction. Both Jamieson and Third Engineer Ralson are on their way up with meggers.’
Bowen brought out his pipe and said nothing. He gave the impression of a man temporarily bereft of words. Kennet wasn’t, but then, Kennet never was.
‘Man never gets to finish a sentence on this bridge. Have you arrived at any conclusion, sir, however unpleasant?’
‘Conclusion, no. Hunch, suspicion, yes. Unpleasant, yes. I would take odds that by or at dawn someone is going to have a go at us.’
‘Fortunately,’ Kennet said, ‘I am not a betting man. In any event I wouldn’t bet against my own convictions. Which are the same as yours, sir.’
‘We’re a hospital ship, sir,’ Batesman said. He didn’t even sound hopeful.
Bowen favoured him with a morose glance. ‘If you are immune to the sufferings of the sick and dying and care to exercise a certain cold-blooded and twisted logic, then we are a man-of-war even though we are completely defenceless. For what do we do? We take our sick and wounded home, fix them up and send them off again to the front or to the sea to fight the Germans once more. If you were to stretch your conscience far enough you could make a good case out of maintaining that to allow a hospital ship to reach its homeland is tantamount to aiding and abetting the enemy. Oberleutnant Lemp would have torpedoed us without a second thought.’
‘Oberleutnant who?’
‘Lemp. Chap who sent the Athenia to the bottom—and Lemp knew that the Athenia carried only civilians as passengers, men, women and children who—he knew this well—would never be used to fight against the Germans. The Athenia was a case much more deserving of compassion than we are, don’t you think, Third?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, sir.’ Batesman was now not only as morose as the Captain had been, but positively mournful. ‘How do we know that this fellow Lemp is not lurking out there, just over the horizon?’
‘Fear not,’ Kennet said. ‘Oberleutnant Lemp has long since been gathered to his ancestors, for whom one can feel only a certain degree of sympathy. However, he may have a twin brother or some kindred souls out there. As the Captain so rightly infers, we live in troubled and uncertain times.’
Batesman looked at Bowen. ‘Is it permitted, Captain, to ask the Chief Officer to shut up?’
Kennet smiled broadly, then stopped smiling as the phone rang again. Batesman reached for the phone but Bowen forestalled him. ‘Master’s privilege, Third. The news may be too heavy for a young man like you to bear.’ He listened, cursed by way of acknowledgment and hung up. When he turned round he looked—and sounded—disgusted.
‘Bloody officers’ toilet!’
Kennet said, ‘Flannelfoot?’
‘Who do you think it was? Santa Claus?’
‘A sound choice,’ Kennet said judiciously. ‘Very sound. Where else could a man work in such peace, privacy and for an undetermined period of time, blissfully immune, one might say, from any fear of interruption? Might even have time to read a chapter of his favourite thriller, as is the habit of one young officer aboard this ship, who shall remain nameless.’
‘The Third Officer has the right of it,’ Bowen said. ‘Will you kindly shut up?’
‘Yes, sir. Was that Jamieson?’
‘Yes.’
‘We should be hearing from Ralson any time now.’
‘Jamieson has already heard from him. Seamen’s toilet this time, port side.’
For once, Kennet had no observation to make and for almost a minute there was