The Study of Falling

by Lesley C. Johnson

a.k.a. 'the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant'

Chapter 5

Collision and Response

The next morning, our fourth day on board, Holmes and I enjoyed a quiet breakfast in a corner of the dining room. As we were finishing, a dozen of the Oxford undergraduates entered boisterously and sat together at a table farther down the room. I watched their appearance with some trepidation when I saw that Caroline was with them. I knew I would have to confront her somehow today.

Holmes noted their arrival and said somewhat humorously,

"Miss Dunworthy appears chipper this morning, Russell. Have you solved the mystery of the unpleasantness in the Palm Court?"

I smiled wanly,

"That sounds like one of Uncle John's more unlikely titles. And no, I am still investigating the situation."

"Oh? What is the cause of the delay?" He asked, setting down his coffee cup and assuming a businesslike manner.

"There is no delay... I'm not on a schedule, am I?" I realized that sounded almost snappish and thought I had better try to cover it. "I simply haven't found an opportunity to speak to her alone, that is all. I will take care of it today."

I attempted a reassuring smile, but now that he had brought it up I felt how little enthusiasm I had for dealing with it.

Holmes raised his eyebrows and said carefully, as though wishing to avoid setting me off,

"As you see fit, my dear Russell. It is your affair."

"What do you mean by that?" I said, snappishly.

He looked at me with some confusion. "I meant nothing, Russell. Is there something you wish to tell me about this problem?"

"No. There is nothing to tell. I have no idea why she should behave this way, and... really I don't care."

Holmes watched my little fit of pique and apparently saw right through it.

"Russell, your apprehension is perfectly understandable. It is uncomfortable to have to face someone who bears a grievance against you, but you cannot run away from this little confrontation. It is best to deal with it now while you have the opportunity."

"Well, it is uncomfortable. And it seems pointless to engage in a confrontation with someone I'll probably never have to see again after we leave this ship." Ending almost querulously.

"Yes," he began mildly enough, "and in future you can always wear a disguise whenever you go up to Oxford." His equanimity lost the battle with his impatience, "Or better yet, send an agent ahead of you to make certain she's not in the vicinity!"

I looked at him from below disgruntled brows.

"Russell, you are pouting like a child who has been told to apologise to a playmate. You must find the opportunity to speak to her."

I opened my mouth to protest but when he stood and dropped his napkin on the table, I closed it.

"I shall give you every freedom to do that by staying out of your way this morning." And he walked placidly out of the dining room.

He was right, of course. And I did feel like a sulky child. In fact, the idea of hiding in our cabin all morning had a definite appeal. Why on earth hadn't I brought something to read? I made a show of finishing the toast and pouring another cup of coffee, with one eye on the undergraduates' distant table.

I did not relish the idea of another public humiliation or insult in front of the others. Holmes had called it a 'little confrontation,' and I supposed he was right, really. How to go about it? It would be cowardly or at least foolish to send a note via one of the stewards. Perhaps I could make use of Mavis. Yes, I could have Mavis convey a message to Caroline that I wished to speak to her!

There -- I had decided on my strategy. Now I would simply watch for the chance to speak to Mavis away from the others.

That opportunity seemed to present itself about a half-hour later when, after I had trailed them out of the dining room at a discreet distance, I caught a glimpse of Kempling in the Library and assumed Mavis would be with him. But she was not there. Instead Kempling and George Kennington sat with their heads bent over papers spread out on the table between them.

I observed them for a moment and overheard Kempling say enthusiastically,

"Well, Kennington, it seems to me that this paper of yours will generate a great amount of debate! One could argue that, with this view of Artaxerses, Cyrus and Proxenus, you are really suggesting that Xenophon is not to be placed in the same category -- that he must be viewed as independent and entirely untainted by their ambitions. Indeed, that he was simply thrust into the position that made him a great and inspired leader of men. But your view seems to discount his origins. After all, no one will ignore the fact that he began as a mere mercenary and that his motivations --"

Kennington's reaction to this last remark was both unexpected and harsh. He rounded on Kempling, cut him off in mid-sentence and snarled,

"One could argue that you should not offer an opinion on a subject of which you are so woefully ignorant. You offered to go over the Greek and Latin syntax, Kempling. Believe me, I do not look to you for your brilliant critique of the thesis!"

He then pushed together all the papers on the table, thrust them into his portfolio and headed for the door. When he caught sight of me standing in the entryway he checked himself for a moment, somewhat self-conscious and embarrassed. But he continued on and strode past me. Kempling sat stock still, obviously dumbstruck by this unwarranted attack.

While Kempling had struck me as being perhaps not as bright as Dr. Watson, he certainly seemed to be as stolid and kind-hearted. He was invariably inoffensive and did not deserve to be abused in such a way. I could not see what Kennington had gotten out of it, other than some sort of release of his own frustration with something that must be completely unrelated to this exchange.

As Kempling had not noticed me, and as I felt I had no helpful insight into the cause of his friend's outburst, I moved out of the room and made my way to the Promenade to think.

After a few deep breaths of the cool sea air I pondered the strange currents of tension amongst these people whom I called my peers. I had never thought of myself as anti-social, but I was beginning to dislike the sensation of being pulled and pushed by the seemingly hidden forces of -- what had Holmes called it our first night aboard? The 'dynamics of social congress.' Dynamics, indeed.

However, I still had not accomplished my mission, so I set out on another tiring perambulation of the ship in search of Mavis or Caroline. I tried to recall my last interactions with Caroline at the university. I was sure it was nearly two years since we had even spoken to each other. I seemed to remember her making excuses and turning down my invitations to meet for coffee several times, but I'd thought nothing of it. We were all busy. In fact Caroline was looking rather care-worn at the time, and had mentioned several commitments that were weighing her down.

But there was one incident. A large mixed group of us had met to take a break in the pub and Caroline and her brother Charles had come up to our table. They seemed perfectly fine at first, but when Caroline's eyes had fallen on my corner her manner changed abruptly. She had pulled at her brother's arm and insisted on leaving. It was strange... and there had been a moment of awkward quiet as we watched them go. But no one had speculated on the cause, the boy I was sitting with had begun another topic of conversation and the moment had passed. That was the only incident that came to mind, but I could see no significance in it.

Eventually on B deck I encountered three of the other Oxford women and they suggested I try the Sun Room to find Mavis.

I approached the place and saw Caroline sitting at a rattan table flipping the pages of a periodical. I braced myself to seize the opportunity (as Holmes had counselled) to beard the lioness in her den, but when I moved into the entranceway I was decidedly taken aback to see Mavis in animated discussion with her.

They appeared very easy in each other's company, and just as I got a full view of them together, they burst out in merry laughter over something Mavis said. I moved back from the doorway and stood behind it, wondering what to make of this. Furiously reviewing all my conversations with Mavis I comforted myself with the thought that I had not said anything incautious to her. However this was a development I found disturbing.

If Mavis truly sympathised with my distress at Caroline's constant remarks, how could she now sit with her in such apparent camaraderie? Surely Holmes' suspicions were not valid -- that Mavis had been shadowing me on purpose (whatever those purposes were)? As I stood thinking I began to feel decidedly angry about the situation; but at least I had the sense not to barge in and confront them both while in a temper. And, I grudgingly admitted, I did not have all the data.

I would take a moment to let my anger cool before speaking to either one or both of them. Turning away from the entrance I walked straight into John Kempling and a now perfectly composed George Kennington. I blinked at them both in surprise. Had I imagined the scene between them in the Library? Between my anger and my confusion I felt as if my head were spinning. When Kempling good-naturedly took my arm and gathered me up in his progress I was in the Sun Room before I knew it.

Kempling pulled out a chair for me and the men carried two over for themselves. When they had settled in I distinctly felt Caroline withdrawing into herself and Mavis trying to project some sort of silent message across the table at me. The hidden currents were moving palpably. I actually closed my eyes for a moment to gain some equilibrium.

Kempling and Mavis spoke of inconsequential things, and Caroline made polite noises at them, but I became aware of Kennington watching me discreetly. He seemed about to say something, but the moment was interrupted when Mavis spoke,

"Mary, Caroline and I were just trying to remember a passage from Dr. Horne's commentary on The Code of Hammurabi. Caroline had an interesting interpretation of the idea of ancient 'usufructuary' rights, but I really don't know enough about the concept to discuss it intelligently. I thought you might be able to help us. Didn't you say you had a copy of Horne with you?"

Caroline looked more than a little annoyed, while I stared uncomprehendingly at Mavis until she continued with careful emphasis,

"Perhaps you and Caroline could find the book and look it up together... just to help our discussion?" She gave me a significant look, nearly wagging her head towards the door to indicate that this was a ploy to give me a moment alone with Caroline. I hesitated, and Caroline spoke up,

"Oh, really, it's of no importance Mavis. I wouldn't involve Mary in it." Her tone clearly conveyed she had no interest in pursuing anything in my company. I gathered my courage.

"It wouldn't be any trouble at all, Caroline. If you care to come with me, I may just have the book." I rose up expectantly but she said coolly,

"Well, perhaps you could go and look. Your husband complains you are in need of exercise. Bring it up to us if you find it."

That brought me to the limit of my patience. I sat down again and stared at her with equal coldness, and the two men turned from their conversation to watch as the tension built.

"Caroline, if your interest in the matter is so easily defeated, I won't bother." A surge of annoyance prompted me to add,

"As I recall, you always used to have trouble following through on your pet arguments. It seems you have never been as passionate in your pursuit of an idea as the rest of us."

I watched as this remark struck home, and felt a rather unworthy sense of triumph as Caroline coloured, stood abruptly and walked rapidly out of the room.

In the resulting silence I felt all three of my companions staring at me. George Kennington was the first to move, after a puzzled look at me he followed Caroline out of the room. Kempling cleared his throat and picked up the magazine on the table. I met Mavis' concerned expression and shrugged. I did not feel particularly proud of myself, but neither did I feel that I had said anything very harsh. If the woman was so fragile then she should not throw stones. Perhaps at least I had put a stop to her incomprehensible attacks.

Eventually we resumed a rather awkward conversation. Kempling announced that he and Mavis were going to hear another of the concerts in the lounge. Exiting the Sun Room I excused myself, saying I would find my husband and ask if he would care to hear the concert as well.

I wandered somewhat dispiritedly along the gallery passing the entrance to one of the reading rooms, which was deserted except for Holmes who was talking animatedly with an elderly couple. I briefly wondered what obscure or mundane topic he had pulled from his vast mental archives to share with so mild-looking a pair, and had decided that I would leave him to his conversation, when he crossed the room and hailed me rather excitedly, and in another language.

"Maria! Uno momento per favore! "

At my side he switched to a more subdued English.

"Russell! You must join us here. I have learnt some interesting details regarding the political situation in Rome that may have a bearing on our case."

"Am I supposed to be an Italian, Holmes, or --?" His enthusiasm put me on my guard and jolted me out of my own contemplations. Was I to step into a rôle at such short notice?

"Not at all, Russell," he led me back across the room towards the pleasant-looking couple, speaking low and hurriedly,

"In this instance simply act the part of a well-educated, twenty-one year old English newlywed with a keen interest in European politics."

Which is what I was. Hmmm.

He addressed the couple as we shook hands and sat down together.

"Permettami, Signora e Signore Andretti, di intodurre a voi la mia cara sposa, Maria, er -- Mary." He turned to me and continued in Italian (much to my confusion).

"Mary, Signore Andretti è un Direttore pensionato dell'ufficio della Finanza Nationale. Anche, Signora Andretti ha lavorato nel servizio governativo del Signor Giolitti. Stiamo avendo una conversazione degli... "

(Mamma mia, I thought to myself, here was a pop quiz! I scrambled to call up my Italian and fairly quickly managed to throw my mind into the rapidly flowing torrent of his words: I mentally translated that Mr. Andretti was a retired Director of the National Office of Finance -- a top bureaucrat, I supposed. Mrs Andretti had worked for the government service -- like our Home Office -- under the former Prime Minister Giolitti. And they have been discussing the new political developments in Rome. Whew! Now I was with him.)

He continued in Italian and my brain now comprehended the words.

"...degli notizie politiche a Roma. Signore Andretti, vi chiedo di ripetere cosa avete detto di Signore Mussolini, prego." (If you would be so kind, may I ask you to repeat your thoughts about Mr. Mussolini?)

Mr. Andretti obliged by telling us about this newly elected member of the Italian Parliament. Mr. Mussolini had begun his political life as a Socialist, advocating for the working classes, founding a Socialist group and editing a newspaper called La Lotta di Classe, 'The Class Struggle'.

But in 1914 he had suddenly dropped his Socialist ideals and moved to the far right. In 1919 with a group of ardent followers he had formed the new Fasci di Combattimento, a right wing party. Mussolini had coined the term 'fascism' in reference to the ancient sign of authority, 'fasces,' the symbolic bundle of rods and axe blade carried by a Roman magistrate. The party had gained sufficient seats in the recent elections to wield some power against the current Liberal government, with the support of a group of industrialists and agrarians, to whom Mussolini had given his approval for strikebreaking.

Recently the Fascisti had formed lawless armed squads and were terrorising Mussolini's own former Socialist colleagues. Mr. Andretti expressed a fear that Mr. Mussolini, having secured powerful alliances and already destabilized the duly elected Liberals, would form the next government.

Holmes, knowing he was speaking essentially with a private citizen sharing his own opinions and imperfect, though well informed, understanding of the facts, did not question too closely. Instead he responded with a world-weary sort of sympathy as to the distressing inconvenience of ambitious and ruthless men.

I thought I should say something, and ventured, in Italian,

"Is there no one in Rome capable of opposing such a man?" (Holmes gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval.)

Mrs. Andretti expressed regret that none had declared themselves, then offered another piece of information from her perspective. In her work in the Home Office she had seen the manoeuvring of certain up and coming young politicos, and had noticed one in particular. One Mr. Massimo Bonomi of the Liberal party, who seemed to have some invisible strings of power in his hands, because she believed he had prevented Mr. Mussolini from achieving several of his objectives in recent months. Mrs. Andretti felt he was one bright ray of hope in an increasingly darkening political sky.

Holmes reacted to this piece of information in a manner that alerted me to its vital significance: that is he became perfectly passive and erased all expression from his face.

He then smiled noncommittally and offered,

"Gli auguriamo il successo (Let us wish him success)."

After further conversation that ranged along the topics of the slow but encouraging post war recovery of the vineyards in Tuscany, Mr. Bugatti's new motorcar and Maestro Toscanini's reëstablishment as Musical Director at La Scala, we eventually parted. Holmes and I walked through the corridors silently, occupied with our own thoughts until we reached our stateroom.

When he had closed the door behind us, Holmes mused,

"è una situazione volatile. Quando I gruppi muniti uccidono chiunque che li opponga... la diplomazia non sarà efficace..."

My mind had been completely elsewhere, returning to the incident with Caroline, and I stared at him for a moment before I realized why I had not understood him. And as it seemed he was unaware that he was continuing to speak in a language in which I was not entirely fluent, I felt it best to interrupt him. Plaintively I asked,

"Holmes... In English please?"

He frowned, raised his brows in mild surprise, gave his head a minute shake and finished his point.

"I beg your pardon, Russell, I merely said that diplomacy would not be effective when there are armed groups going about murdering anyone who opposes them.

"As for Signore Mussolini, a man does not make a one-hundred-eighty degree turn in political ideology on a whim. Either there is material profit involved or there is an unstable mind capable of wild contradictions. Both are dangerous."

We sat down in armchairs flanking the small table and I focused my attention on the details of the upcoming case.

"But what does Mycroft hope we will be able to do?"

"To begin with, gain a perspective on the current state of factional alliances, determine where the power lies or is likely to lie in the near future. Learn who has been overthrown and who is rising. And learn where this possible 'rogue' agent fits in to it all.

"As to the significance of these findings, that is Mycroft's department. He will analyze the data we provide and make his recommendations to... well, to whomever he determines may benefit from such advice."

"Holmes, are you saying, ours 'not to reason why...' --?"

"In this case, Russell, yes. Ours 'but to do...' -- and then get out quickly, if all goes well."

He seemed unperturbed by the implications of that 'if.'

After tapping his pipe stem thoughtfully against his teeth for a moment, he turned to me seriously and said,

"Russell, this is an assignment that will require a very different approach to that of our adventure in Palestine. It will be a matter of listening, watching, assessing... of insinuating ourselves into the right places, amongst the right people, and yet remaining as invisible and insignificant as possible. It is a delicate business. We will not be required so much to play a rôle, but rather... to erase all impression that we are anyone at all.

"Do you see what I mean? We must take on -- No, not 'take on.' Let me rephrase that -- I should say, we must 'reduce ourselves' to an anonymity that raises no interest or suspicion."

I considered this for a moment and asked,

"Do you mean something like a 'faceless bureaucrat,' always there but overlooked?"

"Yes, that is a good image, Russ. An unambitious bureaucrat completely without personal motivation. Yet even that can attract notice. There will have to be a plausible reason for our presence. I have not quite worked it out..."

Then with an air of putting it all to one side, he said,

"However, we don't yet have all the data. And Mycroft's man will have prepared the ground for us to some extent. When we have obtained as much information as possible on the situation, then we will suit our actions to the circumstances as we find them. We must wait and see."

There was something in his manner and words that created in me a vaguely uncomfortable feeling, which I covered with a smile and said,

"Holmes, you seem almost philosophical in your approach to this case. Where's the 'man of action' I married?"

He looked rather disappointed, and then spoke carefully, as if battling with several contending reactions to my somewhat flippant remark.

"Russ, I have worked on many cases like this before, where there was very little 'action' to speak of. They don't translate well onto the printed page, and that is why Watson never wrote of them. However, I can promise you that the danger involved is as great as in any of those melodramas in The Strand.

"Under the conditions we will be presented with here, Russell, a simple misplaced word in the wrong ear would have the same dramatic and disastrous effect on the case as if one of us were to be shoved over the Reichenbach Falls. I beg you to keep that in mind."

His words, and especially his tone, had the desired result of sobering my mood. I said quietly, "I will, Holmes."

He regarded me seriously for some moments, then the concern in his eyes gradually relaxed into a gentle smile. He reached across the table and took my hand briefly. "Come, let me take you to lunch."

Standing and stowing away his pipe in an inside pocket, he said, "You will need to fortify yourself for this long evening ahead of us, Russell. -- You do still wish to go to the Ball tonight? Good. -- But you seem a little tired. Perhaps a doss on the couch would be in order."

"A what?" I stopped and stared at him. I thought he had used some objectionable slang term.

"A 'doss' -- a sleep, a nap, on an improvised bed. It's a Midlands expression. What did you think I meant, Russell?"

"I'd rather not say, Holmes." I felt myself go pink and he looked at me quizzically while we walked out of our cabin and along the passageway.

"By the way, Russell, were you able to resolve the matter with Miss Dunworthy?"

"Oh... yes... it seems to have been of no importance, really." He continued watching me for a moment as we walked, then nodded, as if satisfied with my answer.

That night, our last aboard the ship before arriving at our destination the following day, there was to be a formal dance in the ballroom. I did rest in the afternoon, woke in a considerably brighter frame of mind, and began my preparations with a rejuvenated anticipation of a pleasant evening.

However, formal affairs would always be a matter of some disquietude for me. While I had no inclination to appear either exotic or bohemian, the truth was that it was impossible for me to wear an off-the-shoulder ballgown. In consultation with the Elves we had, for this sort of occasion, come up with an acceptable alternative.

I affected a taste towards the well-established interest in things Oriental, and tonight was kitted up in a long columnar draping of cream satin with a wide band of gold-and black-threaded brocade at the hem (the Elves told me this would help visually to reduce my height). This was topped with a vaguely mandarin-styled overjacket made of the same embroidered cream, black and gold brocade and closed with gold silk knotwork frogs. With this necessary coverage over my damaged shoulder and neck I felt I could confidently mingle in the fashionable assembly.

Holmes and I had just missed each other in our late afternoon and evening comings and goings. As I sat at the bedroom dressing table (having made use of the hairdressing service available on board, from which I emerged with a high chignon set off by a small jewelled and white-feathered aigrette), Holmes returned from a mission to replenish his tobacco supply. He called a greeting from the sitting room where he busied himself transferring a quantity of leaf from the new container to his tobacco pouch.

I was studying the effect of the mother-of-pearl and gold teardrop earrings I had chosen when Holmes, who had been humming some snatch of an operatic melody, broke into a fine tenor and sang out,

"'La donn' è mobile qual piùma al vento... muta d'accento, e di pensiero... '" and wandered to the inner doorway while checking the contents of his pockets.

I was no opera enthusiast myself, but I certainly recognized the meaning of that lyric declaration and began to object to his choice of aria, but when I turned and saw him in the doorway I completely forgot what I intended to say.

There is nothing in the world so elegant, in my opinion, as a tall, straight-backed man in full formal white tie and tails. Holmes stood in our stateroom in the complete regalia: raven black tailcoat, satin at the lapels and on the stripe of the trouser seam, exquisite white cuffs, unimpeachable shirtfront and waistcoat, white tie, wing collar and white gloves at the ready. With hair smooth and glossy he was an impressive and ineffably distinguished figure.

I found myself admiring him rather shyly, as if I had not quite fully realized before the innate dignity and august stature of this man who had, against all odds, deigned to attach himself to me.

He glanced over, picking a shred of tobacco off his sleeve, and even that gesture was pure elegance, dressed as he was.

"What were you saying?" he asked simply, taking in my silence.

I think I actually blushed.

"Oh, nothing... you look... very nice, Holmes."

He grinned at me,

"Clothes make the man, eh, Russell? But come. Let me see what your fairies have made for you."

"They are not fairies, Holmes, they are Elves. There is a distinction, you know."

I pulled on my long evening gloves, rose from my chair and approached him.

He held up a hand to stop me, traced a horizontal circle in the air and I turned in a slow spin, smiling at him. He came to take both my hands in his and demonstrated his approval in a mostly non-verbal manner, though carefully so as not to disarrange anything.

We made our way through the richly decorated panelled passageways, now glowing with mellow lamplight, to the grand stairway and thence to the brilliantly lit ballroom. At a well-situated table a waiter took our drink orders and we sat up to take in the spectacle. The tables were arranged around the periphery of the large dance floor and then extended back to fill the farther end of the room. It seemed as though more than five hundred people were accommodated in the hall, and yet there was a sense of spaciousness and ease of movement throughout the place.

My eyes gradually adjusted to the dazzling and colourful pageantry of the scene and I began to recognize individuals in the crowd. There were many gentlemen who bore the evidence of their wartime service in discreetly folded and pinned empty jacket sleeves, the stiff gait of a prosthetic leg or the reliance on a cane.

Some of the young men, I noticed, were wearing the new fashion of evening jacket, a short single-breasted style, known in America as a Tuxedo. To my eye it seemed rather too casual in comparison to the majority who wore the traditional tailcoat, and I said so to Holmes.

"Perhaps so, Russ, but these are new times and some of the old traditions must fall by the wayside. I've worn one of these things on formal occasions for forty years, and I will say the new style looks deucedly more comfortable."

"I see. And yet you seem perfectly at ease, Holmes."

"Practise, Russell. One must cultivate an air of nonchalance."

I laughed softly and said, "Nonetheless, I prefer the traditional look. I am an old-fashioned girl at heart, I suppose."

Holmes laughed while frowning in mock concentration,

"I shall have to work hard to retain that idea in my head, Russell."

I saw that a few of the women had opted for the latest styles in evening wear, sporting long tapered dresses with square or plunging necklines, fur wrappers and extravagantly feathered head-dresses, but again the majority had chosen the traditional off-the-shoulder, full-skirted ballgown. All in all I felt I had done all right.

As I turned my head following one of the more flamboyant women in her progress across the floor I met Holmes' expression of quiet amusement. I expected some sardonic comment from him regarding my sartorial interests, but he merely smiled at me and took my hand to hold it on his knee.

As the musicians played the next number we watched the couples' movements around the floor and sipped champagne. Holmes waited until the piece was near its end, then he excused himself and went to speak to the orchestra conductor.

When he returned he stood before me and held out his hand,

"Would you do me the honour of dancing with me, my wife?"

Holmes escorted me onto the floor and took me in his arms in anticipation of the music. We had had occasion to dance together in the past, but only for the purposes of a case (so business not pleasure), and that was before we were married. It was entirely different now. He held me quite close with an arm encircling my back and a white-gloved hand holding mine just above his lapel. When the waltz began, he persuaded me backward with a subtle movement of thigh and hip, indicated a change of direction with a light pressure on the small of my back and a gentle turn on my wrist. His signals were quiet but unmistakable and I found myself following effortlessly. As the music ended I lingered in his embrace and rested my head on his shoulder, rather affected by the sensuality of the experience.

The next piece of music began and I pulled my head up quickly to stare at him. The light in his eyes spoke volumes.

"This is for Amir."

And he carried me off to the whirling cadence of "I Danced with the Girl with the Strawberry Curls."

My mind flew back to those weeks of Bedouin wanderings, the dirt and the stink and the simplicity of that life. The dangers and the terrors we had endured together. I thought of the stern silent Mahmoud and the smouldering Ali, and how that inscrutable pair had unexpectedly taunted me ...with this song.

To hear it again now, in these diametrically opposite circumstances... the contrast was ludicrous. I laughed helplessly on his shoulder.

We had returned to our table and were sitting close together in what was, for me certainly, a swirling haze of romantic contentment, when one of our new acquaintances approached.

Mr. Southam, a distinguished middle-aged gentleman who leaned heavily on a cane, no doubt due to his wartime service, bowed formally and addressed himself to me.

"Miss Russell, I hope you won't think me forward, but I am come on a mission of mercy for my dear wife."

"Not at all, Mr. Southam. How can we be of service?"

"If you would do me the honour of conversing with me, as I am no longer a dancer, I wonder if I might prevail upon your husband to engage my wife in the next number, as she is very fond of dancing?"

I smiled warmly at him and agreed readily. Holmes acquiesced with grace and went in search of his new partner. I chatted amiably with the gentleman and we remarked on the elegance of the whole evening. We watched the couples and he admired his wife somewhat wistfully as she danced with obvious enjoyment. Holmes was all attentiveness, and requested the lady's consent to the next dance as well. Mr. Southam then took his leave of me and rejoined his wife, while Holmes stopped at their table to talk with Mr. and Mrs. Thomson and the Coynes.

Just then John Kempling approached and asked me to dance. We managed quite well considering he was nearly a head shorter than me, and at the end of the tune, as I noticed Holmes had detoured on his return and was visiting with the Andrettis, we walked over to the Oxford table.

I greeted everyone and thanked Kempling again for the dance, and George Kennington appeared at my elbow smiling and with a glass for me.

"Join us for a few minutes, Mary. It appears your husband is occupied at the moment."

Caroline Dunworthy, seated on the far side of the table with an empty glass in her hand, watched Holmes lead Mrs. Andretti onto the dance floor, then turned to me with an unpleasant smile and said,

"Yes, Mary, it seems your husband is engaged with his own contemporaries."

(Oh for pity's sake, I thought to myself, not again.) "Why don't you join the younger set for --."

George interrupted her and pulled me away,

"Mary, may I have the pleasure?"

He took away the glass, led me to the floor and we began to dance. Watching me with a curious expression, he finally said,

"Mary, you have no idea why Caroline has developed a dislike for you, have you?"

I glanced into his eyes with some alarm, then looked away,

"No, honestly George, I do not. I tried to talk to her yesterday, but she refused to hear me. And today... perhaps I did not handle that particularly well."

"I feared as much. Perhaps I could enlighten you? If you wouldn't think it officious of me...?"

"I would welcome any information you have that might shed some light on the matter. It is an uncomfortable situation."

George glanced back at the table, then bent his head close and said quietly,

"It has to do with Ethan, Mary."

The floor suddenly dropped half a foot under me, and I felt my face go hot. Ethan was the young man with the motorcar whose wit and persistence had led to our spending some time together nearly three years ago in the limited social time I allowed myself at the university. I had found him amusing and good company, and we had ventured into some activities, in the privacy of his motorcar, that had been fun but essentially frivolous.

George continued,

"Caroline had a sort of understanding with him, though nothing formal, it would seem. I'm afraid you may have unknowingly thrown a spanner in the works of Caroline's plans."

"I --? But I had no intention of... I mean, we only saw each other for -- we haven't even seen each other for two years! It was never serious. He never told me he was attached to anyone..." I seemed to be tripping over my words to defend myself.

George said nothing.

"Oh, no. But, it's not as if I had any intention of commandeering him." It suddenly became clear to me why my remark in the Sun Room had had such a dramatic effect on her.

He answered carefully,

"I think that is precisely what has re-ignited her grievance. When she learned on our first night aboard that you had married someone else, it seemed to her all the more a heartless and cavalier interference. She was terribly disappointed when Ethan did not renew his addresses."

With some consternation I mulled this over for several minutes.

"May I ask how you know this, George?"

"Of course. Caroline's brother Charles is my friend. He told me about it at the time, and he told me he felt he had to drop Ethan as a friend when... well, when Ethan stopped seeing Caroline. They had been team mates on the Polo squad before."

"I don't suppose there is anything I could possibly say to her now that would change her opinion of me."

"It seems unlikely, Mary."

"Then... all I can do is try to avoid her." He shrugged in a sort of agreement.

We finished our dance and then were presented with the dilemma of where I should go. Clearly not back to the table where Caroline and her brother sat with the others; and Holmes had not returned to our table. Our difficulty was solved when Mavis sent Kempling over and he requested another dance with me. George bowed and returned to the group.

I tried to focus on Kempling's conversation about the upcoming conference and the attractions of Sicily. Peripherally I noticed Holmes across the room standing near the edge of the floor watching us, and I smiled weakly when he caught my eye. Kempling led me in a few turns to the music, and when I looked back Holmes was not there. We turned again and I spotted Holmes crossing to a table where the schoolmistress Miss Hunter and her friend were observing the couples. The music stopped; Kempling took in Holmes' location and talked to me until the music began and we danced again. I saw that after some astonished hesitation Miss Hunter allowed Holmes to lead her out to the floor and he talked animatedly as they danced together.

As the music ended Kempling remembered that Mavis wanted a word with me and he unknowingly steered me over to her at the Oxford table. Mavis jumped up when she saw us approach and came quickly forward a few paces to meet us, with a little anxiety in her manner. She attempted to draw us both away from the table, but we were stopped by Caroline's harsh voice behind us.

"Mary! Aren't you worried that your husband might find the company of those older women more to his liking if you abandon him for so long?"

I turned around slowly to face her, in an agony of embarrassment now that I understood her grievance against me. She set down her half-empty glass and met my eyes in a challenge,

"Perhaps he has not always been the stagnant well of cold water you say he is..."

Here Mavis blushed and looked shamefaced as she turned away from me to stare at Caroline.

"...But you don't seem at all concerned that one of his old paramours is here on the ship."

At this remark, Mavis' shame turned to complete mortification.

I was too appalled to move, but distinctly felt the floor begin to tip crazily forward and had to grasp the back of a chair to keep my balance. All the others at the Oxford table were watching the two of us with obvious discomfort. Caroline's voice rose with an edge of hysteria,

"I suppose if nothing else you must both at least have that trait in common... who knows how many of the men here you have a secret history with?"

I was about to turn and flee the scene when mercifully Charles stood up and pulled his sister to her feet to take her away. Then I noticed the others were now staring past me with some alarm.

Looking round in trepidation I saw Holmes was there, a short distance behind me, his face unreadable. Oh god, how much of this had he heard? Now I needed both hands on the chair for support.

Caroline's brother hissed at her,

"You've gone too far. Be quiet." But she pulled away from his grasp and delivered the final blow,

"After all, Mary, if you can betray one friend, why should anyone be surprised if you betray another... or even your own husband?"

She stood staring into my face, enjoying the bitter triumph of her attack, while I looked back at her, shocked, demoralised and desperately wanting the hard solid floor to open up beneath me.

There was a long moment of absolute quiet and stillness in the immediate area. Somewhere someone laughed. Then there was a movement behind me. I heard Holmes' voice speaking low to Kennington, who together with Kempling and Mavis moved toward the other side of the table. They quietly urged Caroline, who now had broken down into inebriated tears, to go with her brother.

Holmes came to my side, glanced at my face and led me silently back to our table. I sat numbly staring down at the tablecloth in front of me.

At last he cleared his throat and said quietly,

"I thought you had looked into the problem with Miss Dunworthy, Russ. I take it you were not able to resolve the situation?"

"No, I'm sorry, I was not." I managed to ask,

"May we go now... please?"

Without hesitation Holmes rose, took my arm and protectively escorted me out of the ballroom. We made our way to the Promenade deck and began walking slowly towards the stern of the ship.

I made an effort to collect myself and began to talk,

"I was not able to speak to Caroline alone, and I only learned the... reason for her hostility just now from George Kennington." Holmes walked silently beside me. With some self-consciousness I went on,

"There was a boy at the university, two years ago."

"Ah. I see." was his only comment.

"I did not know that Caroline had some expectations of marrying the boy. She holds me responsible for his failure to follow through on what she perceived to be his intentions. That is the cause of her grievance against me."

We walked on in silence, until Holmes said,

"And her remarks tonight...?"

"...Were the result of my mistaken confidences with Mavis Smithfield. I don't believe Mavis intended any harm, she also was unaware of the underlying grievance, but clearly she had repeated some of my words, and remarked on things she had seen, to Caroline, who... interpreted them for her own purposes." I stopped and faced him.

"I am so sorry, Holmes. I have let you down. And I have caused you embarrassment. I regret that I did not handle this better."

He put an arm around me and drew me close, looking into my eyes.

"No, ...no real harm done, Russ," he said very quietly. "Any one who heard her comments will dismiss them as... coming at a regrettable moment of weakness. Nothing more."

I managed to keep back the tears that threatened to spill over.

"But I have let you down. If I had talked to her... I might have avoided this."

He began to walk with me again,

"Perhaps, perhaps not. If Miss Dunworthy has been brooding over this for more than a year, and her friends have not been able to persuade her out of it, there may be nothing that you could have said or done to prevent her attack."

"I could have made a better choice in my confidante -- No. It's not fair of me to say that. It is my fault." I knew I had disappointed him, and his gentleness seemed to reinforce my sense of failure. "I should have used more caution and chosen my words more carefully."

"That, Russell, is a lesson we all must experience many times over before it takes hold. But the alternative is to take a vow of silence, and I do not advocate for that, Russ. Come, as I said, no real harm done."

We arrived at the entrance to the Verandah Café, which was open for passengers seeking a quiet respite from the Ball. George Kennington sat smoking a cigarette. He rose at our approach and Holmes shook his hand,

"Thank-you for your assistance this evening, Mr. Kennington. May we join you?"

"Of course, please do. It... was an unfortunate scene, and I'm sure one that Miss Dunworthy will regret in the morning."

Seeing my discomfort, he changed the subject and smiled,

"Tomorrow we land at Palermo. What are your plans in the area, if I may ask?"

"Visiting with friends, seeing the country, generally enjoying ourselves. Have you travelled in Sicily before, Mr. Kennington?" Holmes asked conversationally.

"Yes, as a boy. With my family on holiday..."

He might have continued, but just then Kempling walked in with Mavis on his arm. She looked decidedly embarrassed when she saw me, but I could not in all conscience place any blame in the matter on her. They came to sit with us and after some apologetic words of comfort on both sides, we settled into an easier talk, but my mood was still depressed.

While I knew I had not actively tried to interfere, knew that I had not been Ethan's only distraction and that he bore the responsibility for Caroline's disappointment, still I regretted my part in it. The hurt to Caroline was not small or frivolous. In this post-war, post-influenza era so many young people were not going to have the life that would bring them what they had every right to expect. Marriage, children, a life-long companion. The numbers had been thrown off. I recalled my friend Ronnie Beaconsfield's joking reference to 'England's surplus women,' but we had both known it was no joke. In every village and town young women stood in the aftermath of these historic forces and looked around only to find the names of their brothers and school friends carved on cenotaphs and memorials. Opportunities and choices were limited, sometimes non-existent. Women did not have the compensation of a variety of career options. And not every woman was suited to a life of charity work. No, it was not a small matter.

I looked up from a subdued contemplation of my hands, met Mavis' eyes and found an unexpected compassion there. With an effort I smiled at her and brought my mind back into the conversation.

Holmes, however, seemed preoccupied and after some minutes he leaned close to me and said into my ear that he wished to look into a small matter and asked if I would mind staying with the others for a quarter hour. I agreed and he excused himself. By the time he rejoined us the others were ready to retire and so with much polite leave-taking we said goodnight. Holmes, however, had returned with a renewed energy and a light in his eyes that put me on my guard. He informed me that while I was obviously dispirited he did not believe I was tired, and he asked me to follow him through the ship and down the grand staircase.