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Yesterday Afternoon
Qi frowned as one of the dockworkers tripped and fell against the door support. The box he was carrying slipped from his fingers and he bent at the knees in a vain attempt to catch it before it hit the ground. He only succeeded in getting his hand caught under it. A solid thump echoed through the cargo bay.
A stream of invective poured from his mouth and he sucked on his bruised fingers. The small crate toppled over and made another less noisy crash. Qi hoped there was nothing important inside.
“Are you listening, Captain?”
Qi turned her attention back to Mrs Cameron. “I’m sorry, Beatrice, what were you saying?”
Beatrice Cameron was decked out in her best European garb complete, from the look of her thin waist, with tightly bound corset. She wondered who had pulled it tight for her. Mrs Cameron might sleep in her cabin but Qi was only there for a few hours a night. Fanning?
“I realise I asked to be brought to the Fortress, and that was all.” She stopped and glanced across the air-dock. Qi followed her gaze. Beyond the cargo area where the Frozen Beauty was docked were the buildings of the passenger embarkation lounge; then came some of the military buildings and standing over it all, Sigiriya.
Sigiriya. The great upthrust of granite located near the middle of Ceylon, where the British had chosen to build their enormous naval dockyard. And almost directly above, seven thousand miles into the Void, hung the Queen Victoria Station: the route to every other world.
“But?” said Qi.
A steam-driven Faraday truck puffed up to the ship, loaded down with more crates belonging to Dr Morbury. Eight workers gathered round to unload it.
“I—I would like to stay on board.”
Qi’s attention snapped around. She had been willing to share her cabin for the duration of this trip because she felt she owed Mrs Cameron a debt for helping her keep the Frozen Beauty from the clutches of the Chinese thugs who claimed to own it.
They did own it, in all truth, but that did not mean Qi was going to let them have it. So she had been grateful enough to provide Beatrice Cameron with free passage to Ceylon to escape her husband.
“What capacity would you see yourself filling on board my ship, Beatrice?” said Qi.
“Cook?”
“Mr Montgomery is a perfectly good cook, I don’t need another one.”
Beatrice hesitated. “But it would free him up; he is your engineer.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive.”
“Chaperone for Fanning.”
Qi laughed. “Even Fanning does not have an adequate job description; he’s just a cabin boy.”
“Someone should look after her—him.”
Qi glanced up. Fanning was leaning over the rail on the top deck, smoking his pipe. “I do not think Fanning needs a nursemaid.”
Mrs Cameron frowned. “There must be something I can do.”
There were shouts from the dock workers as they manhandled the heavy apparatus from the truck down onto the deck and pushed it on runners inside. The trundling sound echoed through the ship.
“It is not that I do not like you, Beatrice,” said Qi. “But I am running a business and I do not give free rides.”
“I’ll pay.”
“Why? You can go back to England, or anywhere else, from here. Or even the Americas, where no one knows who you are and would care even less.”
“What would I do in the Americas, Captain?” said Mrs Cameron, her voice desolate. “Walk the streets because, as you have so ably pointed out, I have no useful skills.”
“I am sorry.”
“I have offered to pay.”
“And I refuse to take your money,” said Qi. “You will squander it on travelling with us and then you will truly be destitute. I will not have that on my conscience.”
The second machine was being offloaded. The men were competent enough, but if she had been in charge of the process she would have slowed them down. They were damaging the cargo.
Still, that was not her concern in this instance. The Beauty was solely for transportation; getting the cargo to its destination was her only responsibility.
Calcutta was close to the Chinese border and under the sway of the gangs, two things which composed a potential concern. But selling the cargo was not required; all they had to do was open the doors and let it be offloaded. They had already been paid for this journey, and for the return trip carrying one of the botanists plus the travel agent.
Mrs Cameron pulled out her kerchief and dabbed at her cheek. A diesel-powered carriage rumbled up to the Beauty and three men extricated themselves from it. The two younger ones, perhaps in their thirties, treated the third, who was old enough to have white hair, with considerable deference.
Qi neither liked nor understood these people. When Dingbang had returned to the ship explaining that he had the commission she was pleased, since carrying passengers and cargo was simpler than cutting ice. Then she had met them, which put a whole new face on the situation. Dr Morbury was a very rude man, and the less she had to do with him the better.
She glanced back at Beatrice. “You can stay on board for this trip.”
“How much?”
“I will not charge you for the reason I gave and I will not set a precedent,” said Qi. “You can, however, liaise with our passengers. I find them difficult to talk to.”
Mrs Cameron suppressed the excitement that reddened her cheeks. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I will do such a good job you will want to keep me.”
“I doubt it, Beatrice,” said Qi. “As I have made quite plain, we do not carry passengers as a rule.”
“When shall I start?”
Qi nodded in the direction of the three men heading in their direction. “Immediately. Make sure everything is to their satisfaction and deal with their accommodation.”
* * * * *
To Beatrice’s eye, the captain turned and faded from view into the dark interior of the ship. She smoothed down the front of her dress, made one final dab at her eyes to dry them, and then turned towards the oncoming group.
She smiled pleasantly. “Gentlemen, welcome to the Frozen Beauty. My name is Mrs Beatrice Cameron and I will be your ship’s liaison for the journey.” She held out her hand to the older gentleman, who squinted at her. A monocle dangled from his lapel.
He took her hand in a weak grasp and gave it a gentle shake. “A woman?”
Mrs Cameron’s smile did not falter. “My dear sir, your captain is also a woman.”
“Damn suffragists.”
The smile remained in place but any genuine good humour had drained out of her. The captain had certainly given her the worst possible job, presumably as her punishment for nagging.
“And you are, sir?” she said keeping her voice calm. May I have the pleasure of knowing who is insulting me?
After a moment’s hesitation the youngest of the three stepped forwards. “This is Dr Morbury, the Curator of the Botanic Garden in Oxford.”
He said the name of the garden with such significance Beatrice could only assume it was important. Though she looked expectantly in his direction, the great man did not nod his head or acknowledge her in any way.
“And Dr Lambington.”
“Mrs Cameron,” said the second man. He smiled pleasantly but did not offer his hand. He was only in his thirties but already losing his hair, and was quite rotund.
“And I am Tom Ketteridge,” he said and held out his hand.
She shook it. “A pleasure, Dr Ketteridge.”
The old man spluttered.
“Just Mr Ketteridge. I am responsible for the various travel arrangements.”
“My apologies, Mr Ketteridge,” she said. “I am delighted to welcome you all on board.”
“I hope we will have the opportunity to be introduced to all of the crew?”
“Speak for yourself, man,” said Dr Morbury.
“I’m sure that can be arranged, Mr Ketteridge,” said Beatrice, surprised at her own strength of will in suppressing her desire to strike out at the rudeness of the curator.