The Dark Labyrinth Read Free Page A

sooner had she come aboard than the bell rang and there stood Miss Dombey at the door of her cabin with her arms on her hips, waiting for her to help her unpack. “Come on,” she had called in her brassy assured manner. “Hurry up.” And then, what? You would never guess. She asked her her name and, thrusting a little book into her hand, said, “Here, read this when you have time.” The book was called The Way of the Cross . It seemed absolute gibberish to her, and day in, day out, Miss Dombey would question her. “Have you read it yet? Is there anything you would like me to explain?” And then there was that beastly little dog of hers messing everywhere: she had brought it aboard in defiance of regulations, and no one was able to part her from it.
    As she turned over Miss Dombey’s effects, which, apart from the bundles of tracts, were few, the stewardess remembered another incident which had surprised her. She had recounted it later in the voyage to the purser who seemed to find it very droll. The bell rang and there was Miss Dombey standing outside the cabin door, her red freckled face contorted with anger. Without a word she turned and led the way to the private bathroom which was attached to her saloon. Pointing a quivering finger, she said, in tones of outrage, “And what might this be?” She was pointing at the bidet —for the Europa was one of those French liners which had changed hands after the war. “That ma’am?” she had said, with a dreadful feeling of being personally responsible for the outrage. “That’s a biddy.” It was enough for Miss Dombey. She turned on her heel and bowled out into the corridor. “I am going to see the Captain,” she said. “It must be removed at once.” She actually fought her way on to the bridge to see the Captain. What she said to him was not known, but when they came down off the bridge they were both red in the face. The bidet stayed where it was, but an arctic coldness sprang up in Miss Dombey’s manner whenever she passed the Captain on deck. The Captain was not one to be put upon by such behaviour.
    Mr. Campion had taken all his things. He had, however, trodden a certain amount of paint into the floor, and had forgotten a small folding camp-stool. There was a paper bag full of walnuts under his pillow and a small dirty comb. A dozen roped-up canvases stood in the corner tied together with a rubber band and label. The label bore an address in Marseilles. Mr. Campion was rather too familiar with her. “A penny for your thoughts,” he had said on one occasion; and when she did not reply: “No? Well then, a pound for your body.” It was hardly the way to speak to a decent girl—even if she wasn’t a lady. Mr. Campion had also left a beret on the wardrobe. He always wore a beret and an open-necked shirt. Perhaps he had more than one beret. She tried it on and thought she would keep it; it would look quite nice after a dry-clean. The walnuts seemed to be mostly bad.
    Who else was there? It always gave her a pleasant feeling of superstitious fear to go to Fearmax’s cabin. It was rather a gloomy one on A deck. It was in a fearful mess. There were a number of books lying about, clothes hanging out of suitcases, and several bundles of envelopes done up with string and sealing-wax. She touched them softly, as if she were afraid that some of the medium’s magnetism might remain in these belongings of his. There was the short cloak he wore for the ball—it suited him over his evening clothes. A box of cigars and a rosary lay beside his bed. She turned over some of the envelopes in her hands. On one was written in a spidery hand “ Press Cuttings , 1941-48”, on another “ Articles to The Medium ,” and a third, “ My last Will and Testament, O. Fearmax ”.
    The steward came in to help her sort the belongings which littered the cabin. She