Page 30 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
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For the third night, Cecile was reminded of Lucrezia’s propensity to snore; not to mention, her tendency to pull the covers onto her own side of the bed.
Lucrezia had been making herself at home in Cecile’s suite—despite its ‘abominable’ frills and florals—and, naturally, Cecile had made her welcome. To do otherwise would have been peevish.
Lucrezia had done so much to make Cecile feel comfortable when she’d arrived in Scogliera, and it occurred to Cecile that, perhaps, the business with Senhora Fonseca had affected Lucrezia more than she wished to show.
If Lucrezia felt safer not to be alone, Cecile was duty bound, as a true friend, to accommodate that wish.
Still, she couldn’t help feeling a little irritation.
That morning, a large portion of Lucrezia’s wardrobe had moved into her cabin, and every surface of the room now seemed littered with her belongings.
At least, as the days passed, they were sailing closer to the equator. The night temperatures were becoming kinder, and the sea less rough. That afternoon, she and Lucrezia had ventured to sit in folding chairs placed directly outside the cabin door, and the sun had felt positively warming.
Meanwhile, Maud was recovering. Cecile had sat with her for an hour that morning, their conversation coming more easily than it had for some time. If Cecile were honest, the hour’s respite from Lucrezia’s exuberant chatter was also appreciated.
Beside her, Lucrezia muttered in her sleep and rolled away to the far side of the bed, leaving Cecile almost entirely uncovered.
Really! It was all a bit much!
Perhaps she’d be better on the chaise, with her cape and a blanket to keep off the draught.
Rising quietly, Cecile went through to the sitting room.
Unhooking her soft woollen cloak, she sat upon the chaise, pushing aside several of Lucrezia’s books to do so.
The cushions were rather firm. Not at all as comfortable as the bed. And there was no pillow. She ought to fetch one, but was reluctant to wake Lucrezia and become embroiled in a discussion of the sleeping arrangements.
With a sigh, Cecile wandered to the window, lifting the curtain to peer out through the gloom. The mist wasn’t so dense tonight but, still, the ship’s horn sounded at intervals. It had become as familiar to her as the chime of the clock in the hallway at home.
As a swathe of white parted, a figure came into view—standing by the railing of the lower deck, facing not outwards, at the sea, but looking up, towards her very window.
A moment later, they were obscured, but Cecile continued to stare where the person had been.
Chill fingers crept over her.
It was too late, surely, for the lone figure to be a gentleman taking the air after his last cigar.
The temptation to ignore what she’d seen was strong. She was safe inside her cabin. The door was locked. She wasn’t alone.
Nor were Maud and Henry.
But, what if the figure she’d seen was the man who’d attacked Lance? Was he waiting, even now, to return to Mr. Robinson’s cabin?
That, she could not ignore.
There was nothing for it but to wake Lance; to let him know.
Perhaps he and Henry, together, might venture to the lower deck to accost the lurking figure, and discover his intention.
But, she was getting carried away. She need only wake Lance and her part would be done. Pushing her feet into her shoes, she unlocked the door and stepped into the misted air.
Hurrying the few steps to Lance’s door, she hesitated, looking behind her and towards the stairs leading to the lower deck. If someone were to climb them, would she hear?
Hastily, she rapped on the wood, waited some moments, then knocked again, but the door remained closed. No doubt he was asleep and unable to hear. Moving further along, she tapped on the glass of his bedroom window.
‘Lance!’ She called as loudly as she dared, then once more. She pressed her face to the glass, trying to see within, but the curtains were firmly drawn.
