“Is that so?” he said. “Is—that so? You wait awhile, Mrs Alleyn. You wait until you’ve a comparable problem. You haven’t seen anything yet. Not a thing.”
“I guess we’ll just leave it, dear,” Miss Hewson said. “Am I looking forward to my bed! Boy, oh boy!”
“We’ll say good night then, Mrs Alleyn,” Mr Hewson said rather stiffly. “It’s a privilege to make your acquaintance.”
Troy found herself saying good night with much more effusiveness than she normally displayed and this, she supposed, was because she wanted everything to be pleasant in the Zodiac. The Hewsons seemed to cheer up very much at these signs of cordiality and went to bed saying that it took all sorts to make a world.
Troy waited for a moment and then climbed the little companionway and looked over the half-door.
Dr Natouche stood at the after-end of the deck looking, it appeared, at the silhouette of Tollardwark against the night-sky. He has a gift, Troy thought, for isolating himself in space.
“Good night, Dr Natouche,” she said, quietly.
“Good night. Good night, Mrs Alleyn,” he returned, speaking as low as his enormous voice permitted. It was as if he played softly on a drum.
Troy wrote a letter to her husband which she would post before they left Tollard Lock in the morning and it was almost midnight when she had finished it.
What a long, long day, she thought as she climbed into her bed.
-4-
She fell asleep within half a minute and was fathoms deep when noises lugged her to the surface. On the way up she dreamed of sawmills, of road-drills and of dentists. As she awoke her dream persisted: the rhythmic hullabaloo was close at hand, behind her head, coming in at her porthole—everywhere. Her cabin was suffused in moonlight reflected off the river. It looked like a sanctuary for peace itself but on the other side of the wall Miss Rickerby-Carrick in Cabin 8 snored with a virtuosity that exceeded anything Troy had ever heard before. The pandemonium she released no more resembled normal snoring than the “1812 Overture” resembles the “Harmonious Blacksmith.” It was monstrous. It was insupportable.
Troy lay in a sort of incredulous panic, half-giggling, half-appalled as whistles succeeded snorts, and plosives followed upon whistles. A door on the far side of the passage angrily banged. She thought it was Caley Bard’s. Then Mr Hewson, in Cabin 6 on Troy’s left, thudded out of bed, crossed the passage to his sister’s room and knocked.
“Sis! Hey Sis!” Troy heard him wail. “For Pete’s sake! Sis!” Troy reached out and opened her own door a crack.
Evidently, Miss Hewson was awake. Brother and sister consulted piteously together in the passage. Troy heard Miss Hewson say: “O.K., dear. O.K. Go right ahead. Rouse her up. But don’t bring me into it.”
Another door, No 5, Troy thought, had been opened and the admonitory sound: “Ssh!” was sharply projected into the passage. The same door was then smartly shut. Mr Lazenby. Finally Mr Pollock unmistakably erupted into the mélée.
“Does everybody mind!” Mr Pollock asked in a fury. “Do me a favour, ladies and gents. I got the funny habit of liking to sleep at night!” A pause, sumptuously filled by Miss Rickerby-Carrick. “Gawd!” Mr Pollock said. “Has it been offered to the Zoo?”
Troy suddenly thumped the wall. Miss Rickerby-Carrick trumpeted, said “Wh-a-a?” and fell silent. After perhaps thirty wary, listening seconds her fellow-passengers returned to their beds and as she remained tacit, all, presumably, went to sleep.
Troy again slept deeply for what seemed to her to be a very long time and was sickeningly roused by Miss Rickerby-Carrick herself, standing like the first Mrs Rochester beside her bed and looking, Troy felt, not dissimilar. Her cold was heavy on her.
“Dear Mrs Alleyn,” Miss Rickerby-Carrick whispered. “Do, do, do forgive me. I’m so dreadfully sorry but I simply can not get off! Hour after hour and wide awake. I—I had a shock. In Tollardwark. I can’t tell you—at least—I—might. Tomorrow. But I can’t sleep and I can’t find my pills. I can—not—lay my hands upon my pills. Have you by any chance an aspirin? I feel so dreadful, waking you, but I get quite frantic when I can’t sleep—I—I’ve had a shock. I’ve had an awful shock.”
Troy said: “It’s all right. Yes. I’ve got some aspirin. Would you turn on the light?”
When she had done this, Miss Rickerby-Carrick came back to the bed and leant over Troy. She wore a dull magenta dressing-gown; dark blue pyjamas. Something depended from her not very delicious neck. It swung forward and hit Troy on the nose.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.”
“It’s all right. If you’ll just let me up, I’ll find the aspirins.” While Troy did this Miss Rickerby-Carrick whispered indefatigably. “You’ll wonder what it is. That thing. I’ll tell you. It’s a romantic story, no denying it. Never leaves me. You’ll be surprised,” the strange whisper gustily confided. “No kidding. An heirloom. Honestly. My grandfather — surgeon — Czar — Fabergé. I promise you!” Troy had found the aspirin.
“Here they are. I really think you shouldn’t tell people about it, you know.”
“Oh — but you!”
“I wouldn’t — really. Why don’t you put it in safe-keeping?”
“You’re talking like the insurance people.”
“I can well believe it.”
“It’s my Luck,” said Miss Rickerby-Carrick. “That’s how I feel about it. I can’t be without my Luck. I did try once, and immediately fell down a flight of concrete steps. There, now!”
“Well, I wouldn’t talk about it if I were you.”
“That’s what Miss Hewson said. ”
“For Heaven’s sake!” Troy exclaimed and gave up.
“Well, she’s awfully interested in antiques.”
“Have you shown it to her?”
She nodded coyly, wagging her ungainly head up and down and biting her lower lip. “You’ll never guess,” she said, “what it is. The design I mean. Talk about coincidence!” She put her face close to Troy’s and whispered. “In diamonds and emeralds and rubies. The Signs of the Zodiac. Now!”
“Hadn’t you better go to bed?” Troy asked wearily.
Miss Rickerby-Carrick stared fixedly at her and then bolted.
When Mrs Tretheway at eight o’clock brought her a cup of tea, Troy felt as if the incidents of the night had been part of her dreams. At breakfast Mr Pollock and the Hewsons had a muttering session about Miss Rickerby-Carrick. Caley Bard openly asked Troy if she was keen on “Eine Kleine Nacht Musik” and Mr Lazenby told him not to be naughty. As usual Dr Natouche took no part in this general, if furtive, conversation. Miss Rickerby-Carrick herself retired at mid-morning to a corner of the deck where, snuffling dreadfully and looking greatly perturbed, she kept up her diary.
The Zodiac cruised tranquilly through the morning. After luncheon Mr Lazenby occasioned some surprise by appearing in a bathing slip, blowing up an inflatable mattress and sun-bathing on deck. “Once an Aussie, always an Aussie,” he observed. Mr and Miss Hewson were so far encouraged as to change into Hawaiian shorts and floral tops. Dr Natouche had already appeared in immaculate blue linen and Caley Bard in conservative slacks and cotton shirt. Troy settled at a table in the saloon, finished her drawing and treated it to a lovely blush of aquarelle crayons which she had bought for fun and because they were easy to carry. Each of the signs now bore a crazy resemblance to the person she had assigned to it. Caley Bard’s slew-eyed glance looked out of the Scorpion’s head. Virgo was a kind of ethereal whiff of what Miss Rickerby-Carrick might have been. The Hewsons, stylisées, put their heads together for the Twins. Mr Lazenby, naked, blindfold—and in elegant retreat, displayed the Scales. Something about the stalked eyes of the Crab quoted Mr Pollock’s rather prominent stare. Mrs Tretheway, translated into classic splendour, presented the Fish on a celestial platter. The Ram had a steering wheel between his hoofs and the boy, Tom—Aquarius, carried water in a ship’s bucket. Troy’s short dark locks tumbled about the brow of the Goat, while her husband glanced ironically through the Lion’s mask. The Bull, vainglorious, rode his motor-bike. Splendidly alone, the dark Archer drew his bow. Troy was amused with her picture but sighed at the thought of doing the lettering.