"Silver Web" ~ 4th Short Story in the Sailing with Mystery Collection
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| This Cover Image represents Isabella's Watercolor for the Duration of this Short Story |
Opening 2 Sections
Lightning forked across the sky,
piercing white and bright across the drenched skylight of the lounge. Thunder
cracked overhead, drowning the faint shouts of sailors at their stations. Rain
deluged the slick decks and flooded the windows. The Garipoola plunged
down a billowing wave then canted over as another wave struck the ship
broadside. Passengers screamed as they clung to the bolted-down settees and
tables in the lounge.
Isabella cast a prayer
heavenward and wished she were in her cabin with fewer objects to fly her way.
The storm had struck the ship an hour before. The steward reassured them it was
little more than a rain event. As the clock ticked through the hour, the storm
intensified until the steward fled the lounge to seek refuge elsewhere.
The ship righted. Water sluiced
over the glassed ceiling. The rain fell, a deluge that dimmed the day to
twilight.
With Isabella on the bolted-down
settee were the Australia-bound Reynolds family, the three children clustered
at their parents’ feet. The youngest, the only daughter, crowded between her
father’s long legs, clinging to his shins. The two boys crouched before their
mother and Isabella. They had turned two chairs onto their sides as a barrier
against other sliding chairs. On the floor beside her were Sheridan and Colfax
Ingram, the father with an arm around his son’s shoulders. They braced against
the wall and had hooked two chairs together as defense
The elder Ingram had never
reached the lounge. He had remained in his cabin, examining accounts with his
secretary Nedda Cortland. The Ingrams and their retinue, secretary and
servants, would leave when the ship docked in Muscat. Already, Isabella mourned
the loss of her friend Nedda.
Her other friend, Col. Werthy
was also absent from the lounge. Like Isabella, he and his protégé Richard Owen
were bound for India. They would debark in Bombay while she traveled on to
Madras. She had no idea where Werthy had found sanctuary from the storm.
Tie askew and hair mussed, Clive
Rexford sat beyond the Ingrams, and beyond him was the mutton-chopped Nelson
Fullerton, also bound for India. The Fremonts, parents and daughter Savina,
crowded on one side of the banquette fastened to the outer wall. Sharing the
other side were the missionary Miss Harlow and a couple that Isabella barely
knew, the Rathburns.
Another wave struck the Garipoola.
Women screamed. Men cursed. Lightning flashed, a penetrating brilliance that
illuminated the skylight and the windows along the lounge walls. Then the ship
struggled up another surging wave. Unsecured chairs, broken fragments of china,
books, and bags slid across the floor. Rain spattered the glass, pinging like
hailstones.
A shadow passed along the
windows, braving the wave-assaulted deck. A sailor, struggling to a different
station as the ship fought the storm. He plastered against the windows, a
distorted blur soaked by seawater, arms upraised as he clung to the window
bracing, dark hair plastered to his head. His face looked very white against
the glass.
A wave splashed the windows.
When the water washed off the glass, the sailor had reached the end of the bank
of windows, behind the Fremonts. The ship pitched starboard, throwing him
against the glass again. Then he levered himself past the window and out of
sight.
She couldn’t see the people
clustered along the aft wall of the lounge. The Gallagher family had one of the
corner banquettes on starboard while Phoebe Drake and Edwina Bridgewater clung
to Richard Owen on the window-side of the banquette.
Padgett Michaels sat beside the
door, making a feeble attempt to avoid the water puddling at the threshold. On
the door’s other side were Edgar Lear and another young man, bound for India. The
elderly Lady Bernhardt and the Saunders crowded onto the settee opposite hers.
Then came more people that Isabella didn’t know, some who had joined them at
Jeddah when they all transferred to the Garipoola. Mr. Collins seemed
very much a London barrister. Robin Kennedy was bound for Australia, like the
Reynolds. Allan Gregory would stop in India before heading on to China, like
the Fremonts.
Sheltering in the final corner
banquette were the Titus Malcolms, the Winston Tuchmans, a middle-aged manager
returning to his rubber plantation, and Dr. Bauer, the ship’s doctor. The
doctor on the Nomadic had kept to his miniature hospital with its full
complement of medical staff for its thousand passengers. The Garipoola
was much smaller and older than the queen of the British-Asia Oceanic line, and
Dr. Bauer often mingled with them.
She wondered how the passengers
fared who had retreated to their cabins at the first signs of the storm.
As the Garipoola bucked
and plunged, Isabella wished she were back on the larger Nomadic. Capt. Locke
had the weathered features of a man long at sea. She didn’t doubt his
experience, but this storm would tax the greatest captain’s abilities. She
dipped her head to her hands, clinging to the settee’s arm, and prayed God
would calm this raging sea.
An eternity later, the lightning
lost its brilliance. Waves no longer breached the ship decks. Thunder rumbled
distantly. Rain pattered gently against the glass. The ship sliced easily
through the waves. Twilight came, the light unchanged but the clock announcing
day’s end.
The steward reappeared to
announce dinner in a half-hour. “A freak storm,” he answered the clamoring
questions and claimed the night sky of the Arabian Sea was an unmatched marvel.
When she went to dress for
dinner, Isabella found little disturbed in her cabin, a single berth with a
tiny alleyway between the bunk and the cabinet wall. She picked up a pen that
rolled on the floor then slipped into a simple frock. The air in her little
lavatory was humid, curling her hair around her face.
She encountered Nedda on the
deck near the dining room’s entrance. The secretary had a single berth much
like Isabella’s although nearer to the stateroom of her employer. “I see you
survived the storm.”
Nedda rolled her eyes. “You look
none the worse. Were you in your cabin?”
“No. The lounge. It was horrid.”
“Did you worry that the glass
would break? Especially the ceiling.”
“I didn’t even think of that!”
“Lucky you. Mr. Ingram
discovered seasickness.”
“You poor thing!” for she knew
that Nedda would have had to deal with any of her employer’s problems. Hyatt
Ingram never talked business around his valet.
“One benefit: he won’t join us
tonight.”
Then they were in the dining
room, slowly filling up even though the half-hour had passed. They plastered on
their company smiles as they slid into their chairs at the Ingrams’ table.
Colfax Ingram was also absent although Sheridan Ingram was there, serving as
host in his father’s stead.
Emerson Werthy and Richard Owen
had the other chairs. “And where did you ride out the storm?” Isabella asked.
“Mr. Owen was in the lounge with us, keeping the Mesdames Drake and Bridgewater
from sliding to the floor.”
“In the pilothouse with the
captain.” Throughout dinner, he regaled them with Capt. Locke’s stoicism and
the pilot’s jittery nerves.
Tonight’s quick soup revealed
the chef’s own worries during the storm. Rice curry with chicken followed, a
simple dish that hid its quick preparation with spices. The usual third course
was nonexistent. Irish coffee and hot cocoa were offered.
The older passengers retired
early, but the storm had left many restless and edgy. Usually after dinner,
Isabella improved her bridge game with Mr. Rexford, Mr. Fullerton, and whoever
would make the fourth. Mr. Fullerton cried off.
“There’s dancing.” Mr. Rexford
surprised her with the offer and steered her to the long room known as the
saloon at night and the lounge during the day.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Isabella on his arm, Mr. Rexford
paused on the threshold. The room sorted into dancing couples, men standing or
sitting along the walls, to which the tables and chairs were removed. A bar had
opened at the far end, and a steward maneuvered a tray among the spectators.
The saloon looked nothing like
the daytime lounge.
“You know this song?” Mr.
Rexford swung her into a foxtrot that matched the jazzy music.
His agility surprised her. She
knew he was a fixture in London society, but she’d never associated him with
dancing. Ever precise, he didn’t talk as they danced but looked around. That
inattention gave Isabella permission to look as well.
She spotted Phoebe Drake and
Savina Fremont and Edwina Bridgewater, the Gallaghers and the Reynolds, the
Tuchmans and the Malcolms.
When the music ended, Mr.
Rexford stepped back . . . and Padgett Michaels appeared. “You permit?” Aware
that the next song had started, she managed to nod. Partnered couples were
changing, men leaving the floor as other men replaced them.
Mr. Michaels started with a
basic foxtrot.
The saloon had a strange energy.
It reminded her of a coiled rattlesnake, shaking its rattle and ready to
strike.
Mr. Michaels kept her
successfully diverted. “Good of you to join us. Mrs. Tarrant. You’ll be in high
demand.”
“You need more women,” for the
ship had a serious dearth of women passengers. “Is the saloon always this
crowded?”
“Not usually. The storm, you
know. Can you spin?” and he surprised her with one.
By the third spin, she added a
sashay to her whirl that brought a smile to his dour face.
The dance gave her a new view of
Padgett Michaels. She’d considered him stodgy, conversing only about the exotic
jewelry and antiquities he found in the Middle East. She never expected a
dancer who enjoyed spins and dips.
Her next partner, Lionel Wexford,
provided a reason for the saloon’s vibrating energy that looked for a victim.
“You heard? We’ve a thief among us.” He sniffed. “Bad form. The thief must be
extremely clever to take his pick of the jewels aboard.”
“A thief? Whatever do you mean?”
“The thief broke into Lady
Bernhardt’s cabin during the storm. That silver necklace she wears every
evening, he stole it.”
“That beautiful necklace? It was
stolen?”
“An expensive piece.” His arm
tightened on her waist which was his signal for a series of sliding moves for
his version of a one-step dance. “Even broken up by the fence, the diamonds
will bring a pretty price.”
“How horrible. That’s the reason
Lady Bernhardt didn’t come to dinner.”
“I assume our good captain was
with her, promising to find the thief, I’m certain. He will have to work fast.
We dock tomorrow night. Our thief will escape then.”
“I cannot believe it. Stolen!
Who could the thief be?”
He shrugged and turned her.
“Apparently, all the stewards are accounted for during the storm, so one of the
passengers must be the culprit.”
“She loved that necklace.”
Isabella mourned for Lady Bernhardt.
The elegant necklace, all
diamonds and white-gold, started as a single braided strand around the neck
before dividing into three separate strands over the upper bodice. Two
caret-sized diamonds framed the front design, a display of loops upon loops,
each loop attached to the white-gold chains with smaller diamonds. The
showpiece was a teardrop diamond pendant surrounded with glittering emeralds.
Isabella’s first glimpse of the
necklace was the evening they left Jeddah. It had taken her breath away, and
every sighting since had confirmed the glory of the necklace.
She danced fourth with Mr.
Reynolds, who kept to a simple box-step. He talked of the theft for a bit. Then
he started a running commentary about his family’s immigration to Australia.
“My uncle runs sheep, you know.”
Edgar Lear elbowed in for the
next dance. She considered refusing him, but Sheridan Ingram didn’t look upset
to have lost his chance to dance.
Mr. Lear didn’t want to talk
about the theft. He mumbled that the necklace was probably insured then talked
about the ferocity of the storm. He missed a few steps, hurting her toes, and kept
looking around the room.
The gramophone wound down before
the song ended. Isabella escaped with “I must sit. You’ve exhausted me.”
“This is the last but next song,”
he complained.
“I simply must sit. I’m not as
athletic as you are, Mr. Lear.”
His brow furrowed. A muscle
twitched in his jaw, but he led her to some chairs and demanded a man give up
his seat to her.
She didn’t know anyone clustered
around the chairs. Mr. Lear abandoned her before the re-wound song came to an
end. The men asked her to dance. Isabella let the clamor wash over her while
she tried to think of a polite refusal. Then the starting music became a tango.
The clamor died.
A firm hand cupped her elbow,
urging her from the chair. “You know the tango?”
Isabella looked into Emerson
Werthy’s cool-ice eyes. “I do.”
Within minutes, she knew she had
volunteered for trouble. Werthy was the ideal partner, assured and masterful,
and the tango was a dance for lovers. Her husband Madoc had taught her to dance
in close embrace, and Werthy had the same style. She kept flashing to Madoc as
she followed Werthy’s lead.
More than trouble, for her
awareness of him as an attractive man entwined with her perception of him as a
close friend.
The repetitive pulse of the
music took over the beat of her heart. He kept his hand high on her back, embracing
her closely when the music became dramatic. In the rueda, he turned her
so her heart crossed into his. She broke apart for the swing out, and he drew
her back with a snap that brought her in close contact with his lean body.
Isabella stumbled once, as they
stepped in and around each other, the tangle of steps of the ocho that
symbolically entwined them. He kept her close, her cheek against his chin, his
breath wafting the curls around her face, the heat of his body like a furnace
against her. He swung her to the right then pivoted her twice. As the music
ended, he rocked her back then forward, into him, tangled with him.
The music didn’t resume. Chatter
started up and swelled in volume. Someone shoved a wine glass into her hand.
Werthy, she realized. “Drink,” he muttered, “you look too pale.” He glanced
away to speak to Sheridan Ingram.
She sipped the wine, a fruity
white that was too sweet. He knows, and color burned her cheeks. She
veered her gaze away from his broad shoulders to the golden-curled beauty
gazing up at him. Savina Fremont. Her bright red lipstick looked a garish slash
across her face.
Then Isabella’s eyes narrowed
and fastened on the pearl eardrop missing from her left ear. “Savina, you’ve
lost an earring.”
“What?” Her hand flew to her
ears. “Oh no! It’s gone!” The topaz at the top of the right eardrop twinkled.
“It must have fallen off,” a man
said. Clive Rexford, appearing suddenly, for she’d not seen him for almost an
hour.
“It wouldn’t just fall off,”
Isabella countered. “It’s a screwback. Isn’t it, Savina?”
“It would have had to fall off,”
Robin Kennedy said. He’d escorted Savina to their little group and hadn’t left.
All she knew of him was that he’d played rugby at university before the war and
now was Australia-bound.
“No. Screwbacks don’t just fall
off.”
“I cannot wear only one earring.”
Savina began removing the eardrop.
“Pearls aren’t that expensive,”
Phoebe Drake said.
Surprised at the woman’s
appearance, Isabella looked around. Only then did she realize that the saloon
had emptied. A couple of young men still stood at the bar, but besides their
cluster, the people had left. “Savina, is that an Imperial topaz?”
“Of course, it’s an Imperial. I
don’t wear cheap stones.”
“It looks to be a whole caret,”
Ingram judged. As the son of a wealthy financier, he could afford to know the
size and value of jewels.
“It is,” the young woman
snapped.
Lionel Wexford’s conversation
about Lady Bernhardt’s necklace also applied to this eardrop. “Then the earring
is valuable and easily broken apart for sale. The pearl, the reddish topaz, and
the gold setting.”
“The thief,” Werthy said
heavily.
“Exactly,” Mrs. Drake said, and
Isabella recognized their brief short-hand as a clue that Emerson Werthy and
Phoebe Drake knew each other better than she’d realized.
“A thief?” Savina clapped a hand
over her mouth. “Like the one that stole Lady Bernhardt’s necklace?”
“And my tie pin,” Clive Rexford
added quietly.
She knew that tie pin, a bezel-cut
ruby of thumbnail size, surrounded with pavé diamonds. It had glittered at her
over the bridge table on many a night. “I didn’t know we’d had thefts until Mr.
Wexford told me as we danced.”
“Your head is usually in your
sketchbook,” Phoebe Drake said. “No offense intended.”
“None taken. It’s true. When did
these thefts start?”
Werthy turned and took away her
wine glass, setting it on a side table. “When we boarded in Jeddah.”
“The thief boarded then? We’ve
only been aboard five days.”
“A fast worker. That glorious diamond necklace would be treasure enough.”
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