Bittersweet Candy Bowl

Roger is getting to be more and more interesting. ^_^

—-
Chapter 9 – Accusations

Everyone except for Susanne (who was preparing the body for burial at sea) gathered in the common room, strewn about in couches and reclining chairs. Alexander and Theresa, by dint of a few massive casseroles, heavy-duty ear plugs and great effort, had eventually managed to wake the washerwoman. She was fuming in a corner, muttering curses at everything she could see, her face now a combat between angry red and queasy green.

The countess Stilte, though present, seemed to be much more interested in her novel. Zacharias, flimsy as ever, was standing by the door looking utterly confused. L’Aristotle had discovered Abraham and was making some futile attempts at flirting with him, much to the latter’s displeasure. As Roger rose from his chair, however, all the faces in the room turned towards him.

“We know Lucia was murdered,” he said bluntly. “We also know that one of us did it, there is nobody else on the ship.” Lady Diane gasped, and Amanda put her hand over her mouth.

“As follows, this killer must be unveiled and unmasked. If not,” he added, “another life might be taken.”

This proved to be too much for Diane, who fainted into her husband’s arms. Roger, indifferent to the guests’ reactions, continued relentlessly.

“If nobody steps forth and admits guilt, we must take action. Believe me, whoever did it had better fess up, or the punishment will be far worse…” His eyes turned dark and stormy as he spoke, the roar of the thundering seas could be heard behind his voice, and the light in the room seemed to be dimming…

They all shifted uncomfortably. For most of them, seeing the captain – or indeed anyone – in such a mood was unprecedented. The dormant rage boded tornadoes and hurricanes, pushing every soul on the ship to confess, regardless of their actual guilt.

And yet, no one stepped forward. The maelstrom in Roger’s eyes cooled a bit, but not with promise of clearing. Rather, it was the calm of a sleeping beast about to wake. He spoke again, in carefully controlled tones: “Very well. In that case, we must gather what clues we can. Did you find anything in the engine room?”

There was silence. Nobody dared speak to him, to throw themselves into the storm, to yield their lives to the depths of the captain’s eyes. But the spell was eventually broken by August.

“I believe mr. Stark found some cake crumbs on the floor near the boiler.”

“Were they tiramisu crumbs?” asked Alexander, incredulous.

“Yes, they were.”

“But he, Paul, begged for another helping of it just after dinner!”

There was a humming of hushed conversation at this. Could they have found the murderer with so little effort? The duke, however, looked mutinous.

“But… but that’s just folly! Anyone of us could have left that trail there.”

“Our dear Duke is quite right,” intoned Sandrine. “We all toushed or handled the dessert. And you all seem to forget that he was the one who shalled attention to those shrumbs. It would have been frightfully stupid of him to do that if he had killed Lushia, would it not?” she trilled on.

A thoughtful silence greeted this cold shower of logic.

“But Lucia did not eat tiramisu,” said Davido. “So she can’t be the murderer.” He put on a smug smile.

The others stared at him; some nonplussed, some annoyed, yet others exasperated. The Spaniard’s ramblings were perfectly harmless, but in the current light they were not very welcome.

“Madame, if I may…” piped up Rachelle.

“Yes, Rashelle?”

“I beliéve I know who ze killer is.”

Another wave of murmur. Though it was interspersed with doubt this time, most of them clutched at this new straw.

“Continue,” commanded Roger, arms crossed.

“Maria Olina must ‘ave done eet, I am sure of eet!”

There was a mingled chorus of “What?”, “How come?” and “I knew it!” from the crowd. Rachelle kept on.

“You ‘ave ze motíve. You are a communist, oui? And all of us ‘ere, we are rich capitalist people. You could ‘ave killed Lucia to… try… and…” She faltered, her voice fading gradually, under Maria’s disarming gaze. It was not angry or hateful, but meeting it was like meeting a forest fire.

“You misunderstand me, señorita. I am not a revolutionary communist, and I do not wish to murder anyone to create a socialist heaven. But I sympathise with, and share, several of their ideals. You must believe me when I say that I am just as disgusted with this death as you are.”

“But…”

“Let it be,” interrupted Sandrine, kindly. “We do not have any evidenshe against Molly, no matter what motives we may believe her to have.” ( … )


(The chapter continues in the next post. ^_^)

( … ) The group fell into silence yet again. The buzz of thought was ringing loud, but no one seemed to find any new accusations to make – until suddenly, Paul seemed to have had an idea.

“Didn’t August repair the boiler just before the murder?”

And now they were excited, elated, exultant at finding the culprit, murmuring vividly to each other. Of course the waiter had done it, it was all so clear! He had the opportunity, he must have murdered Lucia…

“Enough!”

The shout pulled them all back to the reality, to the room in which they were all gathered. At the epicentre was their hostess, miss Siegler, red-faced with a fury that was even more frightening, even more dangerous than the resting rage of Roger Rahab. It was not more powerful, but the source from whence it came was so unexpected that everyone was caught off guard.

“I will not have any more of this. August had already returned to the sitting room when Lucia left for the night! Now let us stop this foolishness. We have not got enough proof to deal guilt!” With this, she made for the door. But she paused with her hand on the doorknob, and turned to face them once again.

This time, the smile had returned to her eyes and her mouth. She beamed sincerely at them as she trilled; “This meeting had better not ruin our fun. Toodeloo!”

She left them gaping and staring, and closed the door behind her.
—-

ilb, the only flaw i see (other than the occasional grammar issue) is the accents. sometimes you forget to do them, or you do not accentuate it enough in a perticular area.

other than that, its great.

How do you mean? Should I have accentuated Sandrine’s outburst even more, or are you referring to something else entirely? ^_^

nope, she was fine, it was the other person with the accent. (scottish i believe) i have no idea where i found them, i just thought they could have been slightly more….

Oh, you mean August’s Irish? Yes, I realised after a while that I could not pull through an Irish accent, but only after it was already too late. So I decided to just leave it as it is (it is not really important, although during the MMG it had a… certain weight.) ^_^

Otherwise, I am working on making Davido and Michelle sound believable.

… august is irish?… what nationality is everybody?

August is Irish, yes. Or he was. ^_^

But since you asked:

Monseigneur Michelle Sandeur and Rachelle Mabelle - Both are French, although Michelle has next to no accent.
Lucia Torressi - Italian.
Duke Paul Stark - He was born German, but it doesn’t really show. ^_^
Lord Abraham Hamilton and Lady Diane Hamilton - Both are terminally British, of course.
Davido Bavieca - From Spain.
Susanne and Sandrine Siegler - They are Swiss, although I originally made them Indians (you know, from India).
Theresa Kenning - a Dane.
Alexander Pjotr Makretzy - He is Russian.
Countess Amanda Stilte - The Netherlands. No accent for her, naturally. ^_^
Maria Olina - Argentina is her home country.
Zacharias Smith - Comes from the USA.
Yashy Yamabushi - Japanese, ostensibly.
Captain Roger Rahab - Not sure. I think he is either Canadian or American, but at least he lives in Nantucket.
Sir Plato l’Aristotle - Greek.
August McIntyre - As you now know, he is an Irishman.


I know few of these actually have discernible accents in my story (the exceptions are, possibly, Rachelle and Abraham). Mostly, I try to choose words from their original language to keep their characters’ flavour, as I am terrible at making foreign English (sic) sound believable. There is no big plot point that requires us to know their nationalities, so I let them speak a regular English in the vain hope that nobody notices how lazy I am. ^_^

Neh It’s fine ILB, while I was Diane I just broke down and screamed alot. There was no need for an accent.

As in Zacharias Smith from Harry potter?

Yes, apparently so. ^_^

There’s been enough seriousness for now. Have yet another chapter in which Lord Hamilton is the main comedic driving force. ^_^

I am unsure about the paragraphisation (sic) of this one, by the way. I just cannot seem to get it right…


—-
Chapter 10 – Golf

Roger was the only one to be apparently unshaken by Sandrine’s outburst. After a short while, he snapped at them about not causing more trouble, before he, too, went out.

Slowly, they resumed their activities. Amanda picked up from her bookmark, Alexander forced himself into the kitchen to prepare their lunch, Sir Plato followed his fluctuating interests about on the boat and the pianist ventured back to his room for further practice, fortissimo violence and swearing.

Eventually Lord Hamilton rose from his chair and announced to the room at large that he was about to play some golf. His wife, looking worried, followed while fussing over him. When Sir Plato’s advances were starting to cause him discomfort, monseigneur Michelle left to join them.

As the painter stepped onto the deck, he heard Diane’s voice drifting towards him: “But should we really be separated from the others, dear? What if the killer attacks us?”

He turned left and saw Abraham flourishing his walking stick in quite an impressive fashion, spinning it a few times before stomping it to the floorboards and saying: “If the killer does attack us, I assure you, he will regret it immediately. I will protect you no matter what,” he said gallantly, and kissed her hand.

She blushed pink, hugged his arm and said: “Oh, you my knight in silk armour! I know I’ll be safe by your side…”

At this, Abraham turned around and saw Michelle watching them. He flushed, pushed his wife away and cleared his throat.

“Ahem. Now, minigolfing is an art, and as with most arts, the key lies in the wrist…”

The monseigneur forced himself not to laugh as he approached Lady Diane. She smiled broadly at him.

“He is such a dear when he wants to be,” the Lady remarked as her husband went on with his wayward lecture.

“… and, of course, scoring high is a vital aspect …”

“I assume he does not want to often, non?”

“Oh, don’t be cheeky. I love him, you know.”

They stared into the horizon for a while, accompanied by Abraham’s agitated voice. Michelle could see no land, only clear skies and a rising sun that cast an attractive glitter on the pool’s water. The sea was calm, but there was a slight breeze that blew gently on their faces.

“… remember, there is no guarantee for success no matter how …”

“It is a funny thing, is it not, madame? These murders, I mean.”

Diane looked at him, horrified.

“There have been more murders?”

The painter looked confused for a split second, but quickly regained presence of mind.

“Non, madame. I mean to say, of course, this one murder.”

“I think it is terrible, not funny,” came the reply.

“… now, take a look at this club. It is not …”

“I meant no disrespect.”

“Yes, I know,” Diane said sadly. “But who did it?”

“It will not do to give it too much thought, madame.”

They noticed that Lord Abraham was finishing up his lecture, and assumed appropriate listening positions as he delivered the ending.

“… and of course, this is the crucial point of golfing no matter what form it takes.”

“You are entirely right, monsieur.”

Silence followed, only broken by the gentle sloshing of the sea as it caressed the ship’s hull. After a short while, Diane took Abraham by the arm and pulled him with her downstairs. Michelle, now left alone, ascended to the upper deck and stood staring at the sun’s reflection while pondering what to paint next. Yet all he could think about was Sandrine Siegler.
—-

uh it was Zacharias Thompson not Zacharias Smith

Was it? Let me check…

Oh. I must have messed something up, then. Thompson it is. ^_^

This is all coming along rather nicely ILB, keep up the awesome work!

I am very pleased with this chapter. Please tell me how wrong I am about that. ^_^


—-
Chapter 11 – The Axe Appears Again

The atmosphere in the common room has lightened considerably, although one or two dirty looks are exchanged every now and then. The muffled sounds of George Gershwin, interspersed with slightly less muffled bangs on the keys and unintelligible curses, float through the room and tells the listeners that, despite all, everything is back to normal.

August emerges through the bead curtains. The wafting smell of porridge fills the room as he says: “Our cook Alexander would like to announce that lunch is ready.” As he limps out in the corridor, the inhabitants of the room rise from their chairs and divans, and take their places around the big table.

Counting the plates, Amanda discovers that the table is laid for one fewer. It makes her feel hollow somehow. Yet, she is glad that nothing more has happened…

The waiter re-enters the room, spearheading an army of hungry guests. They take their places around the big table (Michelle taking care to keep an empty seat at his right), and soon all but two places are unoccupied. The countess notes who are missing as she overhears August saying: “Yes, Alexander, but the madame told me she wanted to get her by herself…”

Soon, Rachelle comes carrying a big bowl of steaming porridge and a silver ladle. But just as she reaches the table, a terrifying shriek is heard. The waitress drops the bowl in shock, hot oats pouring over several unlucky guests, and they all stare fearfully at each other…

Gathering his wits, Paul jumps from his chair and runs purposefully towards the door. He knows who made that scream, and he knows what must have happened…

The others, still shaken, stumble from their seats and follow him, Roger close at his heel, Zacharias stumbling along at the back. But Paul is the first to reach cabin fifteen, and it is he who looks over Sandrine’s shoulder to see the horrific sight inside that room…

As the duke pulls Sandrine to the side to comfort her, Roger arrives breathing heavily. He enters the room, takes hold of the fire axe’s handle, and wrenches it out of the victim’s bleeding back. He then pulls off his black coat and binds it tightly over the wound. And as the rest of the guests get to the door, and Paul hugs the teary-eyed and terrified Sandrine, the captain lifts Susanne Siegler gently and carries her towards the common room.
—-

Dun dun dun!!! Prepare for McCain anger! McCain smash! I like the chapter ILB, I would just like to see more dialog in between all your long descriptive paragraphs.

Hmm… Perhaps you are right. I wanted to make the chapter fast-paced, and omitted most of the dialogue for that reason, but it might have had the opposite effect. ^_^

I really feel I went overboard with McCain’s depression on that one, but we’ll see how you handle rewriting it.

(Really good job so far by the way.)

Hee. I actually played it down. Sorry about that. ^_^

Although I do believe you (McCain) will get to be even more depressed later on.

Aren’t I a stinker? ^_^


—-
Chapter 12 – Recovery

It was a sombre party that circled Roger, Sandrine and the unconscious Susanne. Though she had not died, the wound on the latter’s back was still serious, and she was still within the reach of death.

Sandrine, devastated by the attack on her sister, was still sobbing. Theresa and Amanda were both trying to comfort her, but especially Amanda had a tendency to break out in tears herself. Paul had retreated, and was watching the scene from a distance.

Roger, who had received basic medical training, was trying his best to bind the wound shut. Despite the fact that there was only one chop in the back, it had been done with enough force to penetrate several inches into the flesh and bone. The captain suspected that the axe had been sharpened severely, and that the attacker had hoped to puncture a lung… but judging from Susanne’s steady breathing, that had thankfully not happened.

Yet, the blood flow seemed to be much slower than it had initially been. Hope was gleaming ever stronger, but the victim was still unconscious. Roger tied a final knot on the bandage, laid Susanne comfortably on a couch, and wiped his forehead.

As the crowd dispersed, August and Rachelle went to get more porridge. The guests were served as they sat, jumbled on seating utensils all over the room.

Michelle was visibly disappointed. He had hoped to sit by Sandrine’s side, but his plan had gone wrong. Now she was surrounded by the other women and Alexander, circling the couch on which Susanne was stretched out. Most of them were talking, but Alexander was staring silently into thin air, and Amanda held a gentle hand on his back.

The other men, meanwhile, were more scattered. Apart from Abraham, Michelle and Plato, they had spread themselves about in the room – some looking bored, others annoyed. After a while, though, the captain rose to speak.

“No one will leave this room from now on,” said Roger, raising his voice. “That will ensure everyone’s safety. If you have to leave, always bring at least two others with you. I want no more killings, is that clear?”

They all nodded in response, some solemnly, others gingerly. Most of them were terrified – nobody had expected that this cruise would be muddled by murders. But slowly and carefully, they resumed their activities.

Zacharias was fuming on a reclining seat, angry that he could not play his precious grand piano. He was tapping his fingers on the armrest, spelling out some very catchy rhythms.

Meanwhile, Michelle had pulled out an A4 notebook, and was drawing furiously. Occasionally, he cast inconspicuous glances at the pair of Sandrine and the countess, who were having a conversation in some inexplicable manner.

The crew were mostly gathered in the kitchen, where they were doing their best to cater and clean at the same time. It was all in a day’s work for them, but the attacks put extra pressure on them all.

Davido, in an attempt to lighten the mood a bit, had somehow put on his suit backwards, and was discreetly trying to open conversations with his back to people. It was clear, however, that his heart was not in it.

Something had broken with the recent attack, and without Sandrine’s buoyant spirits to cheer them up, the atmosphere had turned poisonous. Those who spoke to each other, shaped their words carefully while listening intently to the others, in case they would hear anything incriminating. Many cast mistrusting glances around in the room, hoping that the killer would reveal himself or herself through an involuntary movement.

In fact, the only people who were not affected by this constant antagonising was the crew (apart from Yashy, who could have started World War III on her own regardless of her mood), and the trio of Amanda, Diane and Sandrine. Both groups were shaken and saddened, of course, but they did not seem the least bit suspicious of their fellow cruisers.

As the three were talking, it seemed to them that the dank and dreary air of the common room was gradually drawing back. The fact that Susanne was on her way to recovery had lifted part of the funk away from them, and they were talking with some enthusiasm.

“… Roger did say she was getting better,” Diane pointed out.

“Yes, isn’t that wonderful? She’s breathing soundly.”

The two women looked to the countess, as though they knew she wanted to say something. She, in response, made a complicated gesture involving a swinging motion and a swipe.

“The fire axe? What about it?”

This time, the sign language consisted of a wave, a clapping of hands and a jerking of the thumb.

“Oh, you mean where it went? I’m sure dear Roger knows… Roger!” said Sandrine, raising her voice. “Where did you put that fire axe?”

The captain walked over, assumed an apologetic expression and pulled of his hat for good measure.

“I’m sorry, miss Siegler. But when I went back to retrieve it, it had disappeared…”
—-

Not all too pleased with it… I feel that all my greatest weaknesses as a writer cropped up in this chapter. ^_^

I still can’t see anything wrong here, but I’m not an excellent writer, nor fantastic in the grammatical area. Either way I would say that it’s still coming along rather nicely.

I like it very much so far, my dear

Oh everyone is all “wah!” right now. But Davido made me giggle atleast. Good work so far ILB.

yeah im still waiting for zacharias to have some type of important part (which is later on in like the engine room or something) sorry im just a self absorbed prick (i played zacharias in the mmg)

No, actually, I changed that. You will play a more important part, but somewhere else entirely. ^_^

Ever so occasionally, I write whole chapters based on the antics (or rather, antic) of a single character. This is one of those times. I am sure you can figure out who and which one I am talking about. ^_^


—-
Chapter 13 – Rehab

In the kitchen, the mood was also lighter. They worked well with each other, and the delicious smell of dinner – a delicious side of pork, with a neatly peppered onion soup for appetiser - invaded their nostrils.

Besides, Yashy Yamabushi had been ushered back to her room, a definite boon – at least until they needed the floors mopped. Roger had been nothing less than pleased to send her off, despite his explicit warning on leaving the group.

A few hours had passed since the near-murder had been discovered, though it seemed like only a few minutes to the chef and the waiters. Alexander, however, had been brutally affected by the assault, but still it appeared that he put his fury at the culprit into making a real gourmet meal. The food smelt far better than usual, Rachelle thought.

Roger kept limping in and out. He looked like he wanted to help, but could not find the courage to do so. There was a restless air about him, which was made even more unsettling due to his walking stick and peg leg making irregular rhythms.

Captain Rahab was one of those men who have stared straight into the face of gruesome death and laughed, but are deathly afraid of the mundane. He could have faced the Kraken without blinking, but if someone asked him to dry the dishes he’d disappear faster than lightning on an oil slick.

Therefore, he was not very good at dealing with people. This was becoming more and more evident, as Abraham had taken to calling him “Captain Rehab”.

“I say, captain Rehab, this ship is rather neat.”

August bowed at him, and Rachelle curtsied as she said “Zank you, monsieur”. The Lord ignored this; the only crew members he seemed able to speak to were the captain and the cook.

“Glad to hear it,” said Roger. “But my name is Rahab, not Rehab.”

“Jolly good, old chap. Ah, Alexander! What are you preparing for us tonight? Old boy Rehab here mentioned pork.”

“That is correct, sir. And onion soup as starters.”

“Magnificent, truly magnificent. Oh, if you will excuse me,” he added, putting his hand to his ear, “I think I hear my wife. Later, Alexander, later, Rehab.” With this, he reinserted his pipe and walked elegantly through the bead curtains.

Roger murmured a string of words, of which some of the more prominent were “idiot”, “stuck-up”, “Rahab”, “snootface” and “strangle”. His thunderous expression softened slightly, however, when the cook spoke up.

“Roger, could I be as bold as to ask you to find our hostess?” Though his tone was collected, there was a hint of childish hopefulness about his person. Roger suspected that Sandrine was not really the one he wished to speak with, but he obliged and left into the common room.

A sequence of laughter and giggles forestalled her arrival. When she came into the room in Roger’s wake, it was not the shaking wreck that had discovered a stabbed sister, but a reborn and rejuvenated Sandrine Siegler. She positively beamed, eyes gleaming, and her trills were as loud as ever.

“… oh yes, Roger, I am just fine. Isn’t this smell just riveting? I simply cannot wait for dinner! Hello, Alexander. What was it you wanted to see me for?”

The cook, disconcerted at this transformation, took a little while to reply. Roger retreated to the sitting room, August and Rachelle swiftly following suit out of misguided courtesy.

“Well…” started the cook, a bit nervous. “I was wondering… How is Susanne?”

“Oh, you silly boy,” giggled Sandrine, gently elbowing him in the stomach.

“Wh…”

“She is well, my dear Alexander,” she continued. “Oh, but you are all too easy to mock. In fact, I think she is close to waking up.”

“Y… You do? She is? That’s great!” exclaimed the chef.

“Yes, I thought so too,” replied the other, grinning. “Oh, I’m so happy…”

Sandrine tiptoed out of the kitchen, dancing and humming. Alexander was left with his ladle, now looking elated.

I should probably keep an eye on that pork, he thought at last; a burnt smell had mixed in with the pepper and onions.
—-

Did you guess that it was Jacob’s consistent misspelling of the captain’s name? If so, you were entirely too correct. ^_^

looking good ilb.

Haha I remember calling him out on that, it made me giggle. No literally, I made Diane giggle every time he did that.

Good to see you remember that Alexander was supposed to be the chef, unlike me. I did so horribly in this one.

Would you look at that. Another chapter. ^_^


—-
Chapter 14 – Dinner

“Our cook Alexander would like to announce that dinner is ready,” exclaimed August as he limped out of the kitchen. Yet there was little movement towards the dinner table; instead, a congregation had formed around Susanne’s sickbed.

Intrigued, the waiter walked over. As he stared over Sir Plato’s shoulder, he saw that Susanne was stirring ever so slightly. At her head sat Sandrine, gently stroking her sister’s head; at her feet, Amanda, who seemed to have just put down The Murders of Rugworthy Manor.

Everyone stared, the men nervous and the women expectant. To the gathering, neither food nor drink mattered – only the sister that had been stabbed.

Susanne’s eyelids moved. For a second or so, they batted frantically as though trying to escape a firm grip, but soon they opened slowly to reveal a pair of surprised, blue eyes.

“How are you feeling?” asked her sister, with a caring tone to her voice.

Susanne looked around, confused, but soon she turned her head towards Sandrine, and replied weakly: “I’m… all… right…”

There was a collective sigh from the crowd, who had been holding their breaths for some time. The woman upon whom all their attention was focused, gave a feeble smile, and closed her eyes again.

“Yes… that’s right… you get some rest. Now,” she said to the others, a little more loudly, “let’s just have some of those delishious shishkens, shall we?”

She floated across the floor to a spot by the table, and took a seat. Michelle, who had been lost in the unfamiliar terrotiries of thought for a few seconds, suddenly noticed that Sandrine had vanished and stumbled clumsily in his hurry to catch up. By the time he reached the table, however, Paul and Theresa had taken the places next to her. Miffed by his miss, Michelle moved to a chair on the far end.

Most of the guests had now sat down, and while the last few (Amanda pulling the confused musician to a seat, positioning herself on the opposite side) settled down for dinner, Rachelle came carrying a rim-full bowl of soup. The muttering among the attendants took on a pleasant tone, and as August emerged from the kitchen with the main course (now flambéd), everyone were smiling warmly again.

When the meal had been thoroughly consumed, they all broke up and threw themselves down on appropriate furniture. Most of them conversed heartily, and the duke even went to help the staff out with the dishes. Strangely, though, he seemed to go to some lengths to avoid the waitress.

Alexander, meanwhile, had removed himself from his duties to bring some food to the sickbed. He looked tenderly at its occupant, and sat down to wait.

Michelle had resumed his sketching, and kept staring into empty space, eyes unfocused, as though he had just remembered that he had forgotten something but had no recollection of what.

Sandrine, now in a playful mood, snuck up behind him to peek at his notebook.

“What are you drawing? Oh, the shountess? You silly boy, you,” she giggled, causing the painter severe trauma. He blushed a flaming red, but tried to stutter: “It’s, it’s, a st-study in anananatomy. Yes, amanatony…”

Indeed, the whole atmosphere had changed dramatically once again. Good food and good old gabbing had thrown away all the disdain they had felt for each other just a few hours before, and everybody enjoyed a hearty laugh at the expense of their French friend. A healthy humming of voices filled the room, leaving no doubt that all was forgotten – until…

“HEY!” The shout had come from Roger, and once again it had the edge of the stormy seas to it as he addressed Davido, who had one hand on the doorknob. “No leaving the room on your own! There’s a murderer on board, remember? Now get away from that door until you find someone to go with you.”

And at this, all the contempt from the earlier round of accusation swept over them all. It was a cold shower, but even more than that – it was a reminder that there was a killer among them, and that they were nowhere near knowing who it was…

The captain turned and went back to the kitchen, grumbling audibly. In his wake were the shattered remains of a happiness that now seemed unattainable.
—-

Would you look at that. Another beautifully done chapter. (fixed)

You and Leaving a Comment have instilled the inspiration for myself to write again…But alas, these lights won’t fix themselves.

Always the working man, Sean? ^_^

I feel inspired too… But my fear of criticism is holding me back ;L

You should not fear criticism, dear. ^_^

Besides, I think you could do a lot better than I do.

@ILB:

Of course.



@Sammy:

Go for it. There’s a tremendous difference between constructive criticism and people being jerks.

In the first, people will say what’s wrong and then offer pointers. The second will just be Half-wit remarks like; it sucks, and you should feel terrible about it.

Just ignore the latter.

Well, an english undergraduate must stand some chance

‘“Ah, you’re the wealthy Spaniard, no? I am Lord Abraham Hamilton.” The tuxedoed gentleman offered his left hand, taking his pipe out as he spoke. Davido immediately took notice of his neat, thin moustache, as well as the dignity the man carried himself with, emphasised by a neat top hat and a cane.’
Where did you get the inspiration for Lord Abraham’s costume? Sounds exactly like the dignified Gentleman I’d like to meet and then steal a top hat, cane and pipe from. He’d probably just pull another hat, cane and pipe from his jacket. He’s cool like that
Also, loving the story so far! Keep it up, you’re doing one heck of a good job

Where I got the inspiration? Eh, I just pulled a combination of the two most high-class types of person I could think of (barring royal families): Men dressed in tuxedoes, and men in dashing suits combined with moustaches, hats, pipes and canes. ^_^

Oh, and thank you.

Chapter fifteen is up next. I might need two posts for it…


—-
Chapter 15 – Hate, and an expedition

Silence ensued. A chill had blown through the room, they had been stung and infected with a poison that made them see demons in anyone’s eyes. It must have been that Bavieca, he looks capable of anything! No, Michelle must have done it, he’s acting strangely… and what about the captain himself? Yes, there is something mighty fishy about him.

These hateful thoughts, these loathing reveries floated through them, each being sure that they knew who the killer was – and it was everyone but themselves, for none of them could be trusted…

The crushing silence grew more powerful. A vile vacuum had filled the chairs that, only a minute ago, had been loaded with laughter.

But still, as they all fell deeper into the hush that Roger’s outcry had created, and their own buzzing thoughts became steadily louder, something was nudging them in the side, poking at their shoulder: something was calling for their attention. The vacuum was not complete.

One by one, they turned to see the only ones untouched by the antagonising atmosphere. A trio of women, smiling and laughing with faces that projected an unusual calm – Amanda, Theresa and Sandrine were circled around a lounge table by Susanne’s sickbed, looking carefree as though nothing at all had happened.

The hate that the onlookers had felt so strongly, was now mixed with a confusion, and a peculiar sense of shame that slowly overcame their ill will. Perhaps this really was not the time for distrust…

But it did not leave them. Suspicions kept floating around in their brains, although their facades would not betray an inch of their inner thoughts. Little by little, a conversation restarted, but it was notably more courteous than it had been; no one of them wanted anyone else to know how little faith they had in one another.

Soon, however, something happened to take their minds off their mistrust. Captain Rahab, once again, bumped into the room with deliberate and decisive steps. All eyes present turned towards him, expectantly (and with the slightest bit of fear) waiting for him to say something.

He stopped, crossed his arms and stood up straight, his coat blowing past him with the momentum, his eyes like maelstroms. Terrified, they stared at their captain.

A few seconds passed by before Roger spoke. “We must organise an expedition,” he said. The others stared at him for a while, until they realised that no more words would come. He, meanwhile, kept scowling at them.

“I… I’m sorry, sir, but… why do we have to organise an expedition?” It was Paul who had spoken, and he who Roger turned to.

“Do you really need to ask?”

“Wh…”

“We need to find more clues. I assume none of us took the time to check the cabin where miss Susanne was assaulted?”

Silence greeted this. Pressing on, the captain said: “Precisely. If there aren’t any clues there, I will personally eat my own hat. Furthermore, we need to visit my room. And we can’t go out of here on our own. That’s why.”

Again, there was no sound. They were hesitant to agree with him, even though they knew that no good could come from them sitting around like toys in a doll house.


(The chapter continues in my next post. ^_^)

“Well? Any volunteers?” snapped Rahab, now with a tinge of anger. Slowly, a few hands rose in the air.

“Good… The duke, Zacharias and Theresa. What about you, Abraham?”

“Well, Rehab, old chap” - the captain spluttered at this - “I must stay here and look out for my wife.” He pulled her into a side hug, lightly pecking her cheek. Diane blushed pink.”

“Fair enough, fair enough. And you, l’Aristotle?”

“Eww!”

“All right, all right… How about you, monsieur?” Roger asked Michelle. The latter turned an angry red, a perfect opposite to his glaringly green eyes, and rose from his chair so suddenly that it almost fell backwards.

“I beg your pardon?”

The captain looked taken aback, befuddled at the sudden burst. “What?”

“I am not a monsieur! I am an artist! I paint works of magnificence, the likes of which you will never see! My reputation far exceeds yours, mon ami – I refuse to be labelled as a simpleton, a monsieur!”

Roger had to take a step back, now with terror in his marine blue eyes. Michelle’s inner beast had woken; it was the Behemoth to Roger’s Leviathan, and it had caught the seaman completely by surprise.

“I will not tolerate being called a monsieur, non! I am a monseigneur, thank you!” The painter paused his angry rant to breathe, something he cleary needed. He wheezed, years of pipe-smoking giving it a humorous edge in stark contrast to his cooling rage. “And… do not… forget it,” added Michelle, before subduing to heavy intakes of air.

Roger seemed to have rallied a defense, and was about to retort when he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He turned, and looked into the glitteringly blue eyes of Sandrine Siegler.

“Let it be,” she whispered with a smile. “He is so sharming when he is agitated, is he not?”

The captain considered this for a while, before giving up. He sighed, and continued: “Very well. Will you join us, monseigneur?”

“I will, on one condition only!”

“What is that?”

“You will never call me ‘monsieur’ again, and we will visit the deck.”

“That was tw… Ouch!” Roger rubbed his side and turned towards Sandrine, who was smiling gleefully and shifting back down the left arm of her dress.

“… What do you want to see the deck for?” Rahab tried again, a bit hesitantly.

“I have to… look for something.” Michelle was almost defensive.

“Fine. Then we will go to the deck, to my quarters, and to cabin fifteen. Good?” The captain was clearly annoyed, but resignedly so. The others nodded at him.

“Good. Let’s get going.” He walked towards the door,, the others following one by one in his wake.

As Theresa closed the door upon the remaining dwellers, August appeared behind Lady Diane.

“Let us hope that ‘expedition’ does not mean something worse,” he commented, his voice unusually sombre.

“What do you mean?” asked Diane, before comprehension dawned. “Oh…”
—-

Stay tuned for another exciting episode…

Still going strong ILB.

Oh, hi. Long chapter coming up. ^_^ I need to restrain myself, or else I will have to split them all into pieces.


—-
Chapter 16 – Unfathomable

The group of five ambled cautiously through the corridors. The vessel was pressing, imposing, upon them, and even though they could not believe that a killer likely would strike at five people at once, they were fearful. Who knew what could lurk in the murky shadows of the ship…

Theresa knew, intellectually, that there was no danger to her body or her life. She was surrounded by four able men who could surely defend her if the murderer struck again. In fact, even if the culprit (or culprits) was among them, surely she was safe.

But she could not make herself think that any of these four were responsible. Actually, suspecting anyone of her fellows was unthinkable to her. Granted, some were more likely than others, but her trust extended to everyone. Besides, the others were cooped up in the common room, and escaping from there would be hard with so many vigilant eyes upon them.

The arrival at the door of their destination, marked by a sign labelled “15” in curvy golden letters, pulled her away from her thoughts. She saw the duke approach the door and open it, before Michelle entered to turn the lights on.

Despite the dazzling shine from the magnificent crystal lamp, the room had a dank and gloomy atmosphere. Nobody had done anything with the room after the attack on Susanne, so small puddles of blood stained the floor by the bed; Lucia lay discarded in a linen bag, apparently ready for being buried in the depths of the seas later on. The medical tools that had been used, were spread about on the bed and nighttable. Theresa entered, and went to pick them up.

There was an unpleasant, cold smell everywhere, and Theresa thought that the room looked much darker than her own – despite the fact that she knew them to be similar. Apart from the morbid things that had happened in this cabin, at least…

Yet, something seemed to be missing. She could not quite put her finger on it, but something significant was lacking. It was a wooden feeling…

“Hey,” asked Zacharias, sounding a bit nervous, “I thought we left the fire axe here?”

Theresa looked around, and realised that the musician was right. Roger had let the weapon fall to the ground, and now it was not there any more. A chip in the floor, and some scattered drops of blood, revealed where it had landed. Now it had, once again, disappeared.

“Well, we shouldn’t draw any conclusions. Some of the others could have taken it to keep it safe… But I admit, it looks suspicious.” Roger stood staring at the place where the axe had lain, his gaze detached.

Zacharias, Paul and the painter, meanwhile, had started searching the room. The duke was scanning every inch of the bathroom, Zacharias stooped low to look below the furniture and Michelle had stuck his head into a cupboard. The captain swiftly joined them, while Theresa finished packing up the medical bag.

Their quest yielded little of note, however. The painter had found mothballs in the closet, and had acquired a violent sneezing fit, while the rest of them had found equally few clues. As they prepared to move out, however, the noblewoman heard a clank.

“Wait… do you hear anything?”

The others stopped cold, and looked around cautiously. There was definitely some noise emerging from somewhere nearby, and it was getting closer.

“What is it?” whispered Zacharias to Paul, but the latter could only shake his head as the bumping, now clearly coming from the ceiling, grew louder.

As they all stared upwards, there was a final thud. Then, an ominous creaking from the air vent above the bed told them that something heavy was getting out of there. In a few seconds, the heavy object was identified as Davido Bavieca, sprawled out on the bed in an awkward position; the stickiness of the situation was only strengthened by the fact that he was lying partially across Lucia’s corpse.

The Spaniard sat up straight, screamed “Dios mios!” and brushed a bit of dust off the shoulders of his sharp-cut suit. A few moments later, he realised that he was, in fact, sitting on a dead body.

A string of unprintable Spanish profanities and some frantic waving of limbs later, Davido stumbled to his feet by the bed, and rose up face to face with a sight that could have made far stronger men break down and cry: Roger Rahab was obscuring everything else, an angry scowl on his face, the sea in his eyes boiling as though geysers would spout out from them any second.

Davido stumbled backwards. Theresa did not blame him; she was positive that there was nothing more terrifying in the world right now.

“What were you doing up there?” yelled the captain, spitting out each and every word. “Why were you rambling around in the air ducts?”

The assaulted gentleman had come as far back as the wall, and was frantically scrabbling at it to try and get further away from Roger.

“What were you doing up there, I asked! Answer me!”

(Continuation in the next post. ^_^)

“I… I… I was j-” tried the Spaniard.

“Speak!”

Theresa was shocked. She had seen the captain mad several times before, culminating with the unpleasant incident they had had earlier the same day. But she really thought that he was overreacting; it was not as though the poor man had set any of their lives in danger.

He really is like the sea, she thought. One moment it is calm, yet without warning it suddenly rages and ravages, before it once again turns silent as though nothing has happened at all…

Davido managed to gain enough of a footing to stand up for himself. “I wanted to join in on the expedition, amigo! But I could not simply walk out the door, could I?” He sounded defensive, but also slightly indignant.

“So how, how did you get into the air vents without any of the others discovering you?”

“I hid in a closet!”

“A closet? What closet? Talk, you worm!”

“There’s one in the common room, by the table. I hid in there and I found a chute with a ladder.”

Captain Rahab stared at him with the utmost disdain, but once again the ocean within seemed to have ceased its rampage. He took a deep breath, and spoke again: “So how do we know that you aren’t the killer? It seems unlikely that you’d just… stumble over this chute.”

“Hombre!” Davido stared at him in shock. “I did not murder Lucia!”

“We’ll see,” said the other succinctly, looking away. “For now, we’d do best to look for cl… Davido!”

The Spaniard jumped at this sudden address, but managed to squeak out a “Yes?”.

“Did you see anything suspicious in those vents?”

“No! Well, I did see a few chips in the rust, but those could have been anything, amigo.”

“Very well… Let’s just get to my quarters and find those guns.”

“Guns?” asked Zacharias, clearly nervous. As he fretted over this news, Theresa turned to Paul.

“I really don’t understand Davido.”

“He’s an idiot,” replied the duke, without explanation.

“Oh? Then he’s an unfathomable idiot,” Theresa said with a smile.
—-

I forgot to mention: I have a bonus chapter for you. Pronkat (who played Sir Plato l’Aristotle) made a comment that I just could not let go. ^_^ So we return to the sitting room for a slight pause:


—-
Chapter 17 – Intermission

“How long is he going to stay in there?” Lady Diane looked apprehensively at the cupboard, into which Davido had vanished ten minutes earlier.

The guests nearby glanced at the heavy piece of mahogany furniture. He had been in there for a very long time. Collectively, they wondered how long it would take before he came out, gasping for air…

Sir Plato stared across at it, put on a sly smile and said: “He’s a closeted one, eh?”
—-

Oh dear, that bonus chapter…Plato is just to excited about that if you ask me.

Trust me, I am going to have a lot of fun with that cupboard. ^_^

Hey, John, you get your wish in this chapter, and even more in chapter 20. Zacharias will play a rather big role in this. ^_^


—-
Chapter 18 – A weapon

Davido had now joined the excursion, and all six of its participants were again stepping through the corridors. The captain’s quarters lay between the cabins and the crew rooms, so it was not a long walk – although they had to step down a staircase to reach it.

Soon, the group stood outside the room, waiting for Roger to finish unlocking the door. A gust of fresh wind, tinted with salt, met them as it swung open, at first revealing nothing but darkness. As their eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, however, more and more features sprang into view.

It looked just like they would have expected it to, if this had been the nineteenth century. The size was acceptable, but an unflattering bed plank hung on chains from the wall and a porcelain wash basin by their left side told them that their captain’s way of life was very spartan.

The ancient writing desk also contributed to this image, since it was embellished by an oil lamp with a base of tarnished bronze. Roger bumped across to light it, and as the flame cast its glow through the cabin, the rest of the desk’s interior was revealed.

A quill and ink stood next to a stack of yellowed paper. One page had been pulled down, and there was something scribbled on it. Before anyone could figure out what it was, though, Roger had shuffled it away.

They looked around a bit more. To their right were three shelves, on which stood a range of miniature ships in bottles, the only decoration the room had. The floor by the desk was covered in… splinters?

Next to the desk stood an old cupboard, presumably the one where the guns were kept. But the door had been cracked as though by an axe…

“Wha… Someone’s broken into my room!” The captain limped over to the closet and stared into it, before yelling angrily: “And the bastard’s stolen my Colt!”

Theresa, Paul and the pianist scrambled across the floor to his side. They did not know what the cupboard’s interior had looked like before, but there was a spot that looked a little too empty.

“See? Some idiot’s been here and stolen it!”

“This is bad…” muttered Zacharias nervously. His eyeballs kept darting around, as though they believed that somebody was going to attack them soon, and were frantically trying to escape their cage. Paul was more calm, but there was also a certain unrest about him.

Theresa, however, looked doubtful. “Why would anyone need to break into the cupboard when they obviously didn’t have to break into the room?” Her gaze moved over to Roger, who suddenly looked troubled.

“No… That can’t be… But…” he mumbled incoherently to himself.

“Do you know, captain?” Theresa asked, her voice calm and friendly.

“Hombre! Are you the killer?” blurted out Davido, who had just joined the group along with the painter. The captain, pulled back to the very real reality by this shout, reacted instantly.

“Wh… No, you idiot!”

“Then how, and why, did this someone break into your cupboard without breaking into the room?” repeated Theresa. Though this could easily have been an accusation, her tone was like that of a mother to her child, and her tired visage looked upon Captain Rahab with compassion.

“Why? I can’t tell you why, miss, but… I did forget to lock my door earlier today.” He seemed to have shrunken a bit, as though this admission had drawn wind and water from him. “That someone could’ve done it then. I only noticed just before we had that meeting, so I didn’t check the room.”

“So… so you mean to say that someone’s been walking around with, with a weapon since breakfast?” said Zacharias, clutching the duke’s shoulder to steady himself. “Oh…”

“So what? It doesn’t seem like whoever it is has been using it, does it?”

There was silence for a short while. It was broken again by the captain, who seemed to want a change of topic.

“Didn’t you say that you wanted to check the deck, monsie… monseigneur?”

“Huh? Oh, oh yes. Let us visit the deck,” replied Michelle absent-mindedly.

They all started to shuffle out of the room. Paul, showing unusual courteousness, made sure to blow out the lamp, before he sprang through the door so that Roger could lock it. And with a final click, the captain’s cabin was left behind.
—-

Hee. I thought Abraham had gotten quite a bit too much pepper for being a stuck-up high-class stiff-upper-lip (paraphrase ^_^) Englishman, so I decided to explore another aspect of being British - the biting wit. Oh, by the way, I borrowed one of his insults from Winston Churchill; you will recognise it as the only good one.


—-
Chapter 19 – Abuse

Life went on in the sitting room, with all the twists that followed. Susanne, who had woken up again, was talking with the Lord and Lady Hamilton. She had been provided with a pillow and was now sitting up straight, apparently not fazed by the axe wound in her back.

Sir Plato l’Aristotle had walked over to examine the cabinet that Davido had clambered into earlier, loudly proclaiming his expertise at “getting guys like him out of the closet”. This process had apparently seldom required him to actually open the doors, and both Alexander and Rachelle were watching him, amused by his efforts. It was not every day one could see somebody talk tenderly to furniture.

Amanda, on the other hand, appeared to have lost something. She was crawling on all fours, looking beneath the reclining chairs and the couches. Every once in a while, she would check below the cushions, but her search yielded no result as far as the others could tell.

August was glad that the situation had calmed, and that they had not found any more bodies. The only thing that bothered him right now was that Yashy had returned to the kitchen, with the apparent intent of screaming as much abuse as she could at as many people as possible. The waiter wondered briefly what the washerwoman did when she was alone. Both reading and beauty sleep were inconceivable – even though she definitely needed them.

“… porridge all over the table and the floors! She can’t even hold a bowl correctly, that stupid woman! And it’s me who’s got to scrub it all up – and you!” She pointed angrily at August, her voice cracking as she did so. “Why don’t you help me, you lazy…”

Years of working with squat, green-faced things that had no function apart from washing and being horribly, horribly angry with everything, had given August the innate ability to close out even the most protuberating bouts of anger. He limped across the kitchen and went about his duties, completely ignoring her. Yashy, who never paid attention to anybody but herself, did not notice.

Abraham, however, was not as used to this as the staff. As he entered the room to see what all the commotion was about, he received a faceful of fury.

“You! What’ve you made dirty today, you ponce?”

Lord Hamilton looked taken aback, but also offended. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, you idiot!”

“There is no need for such l….” he tried to retort, but Yashy interrupted.

“Don’t you ‘there’s no need’ me! I’ll make you mop the deck, you…”

A red colour was rising in Abraham’s face, and August felt sure that the Englishman was preparing a devastating insult. The waiter had paused his work, and was expectantly watching the fight, wondering what would ensue after this.

“… stand here, all high and mighty, don’t even care if I have to lick the floors clean…”

Finally, Abraham snapped. He rose to his full height, pulled at the brim of his hat, and raised his voice to speak.

“Madam. There is no need for you to shout like that, you’ll wake our supper.”

“Speaking now, are you?” replied Yashy.

“Yes, I rather felt that the time had come for something sensible to be said.”

“Wh… Why, you dirty… You filth!” spluttered the other, rage welling up in her like soup on too much heat.

“Filth? If so, that is only because you are not doing a good enough job.”

August had been joined by Alexander and Rachelle, who had grown tired of watching Plato caressing the closet. All three of them now stood staring at this battle between wrath and wits, silently betting on whether Abraham would lose his cool. This did not seem to be the case, however, as evidenced by his dashing replies to Yashy’s maddened insults:

“… why, I should throw you right off the boat, I should…”

“If you insist on remaining on this vessel, then I would be more than happy to jump off without your assistance.”

“Shut it, jerkface! You think you’re so much better than me…”

“Would I be wrong in that assumption?” He filled and lit his pipe as he spoke. August had to admire the man’s nerve. One would need rhinoceros skin to even think of standing up to the sheer strength of her screams.

“… if I were your wife, I’d’ve poisoned you long ago!”

“Madam, if you were my wife, I would have taken it gladly.”

This insult proved to be the final drop for the washerwoman, who gave a final “Why, you!” before leaping straight at her opponent. Abraham, undaunted, blocked her while still patting on his pipe. Before Yashy could make her second assault, however, an unnaturally feminine voice resounded through the kitchen.

(The chapter continues in the next post… again ^_^)

(Continuance)

“Oh, my soul! Just what is going on in here? You are giving me such a headache!” The origin of this exclamation was Sir Plato l’Aristotle,who had walked in through the bead curtain, touching his forehead with the back of his hand. “Do not shout so, for I have failed miserably…”

It did not take long before Yashy had shaken off her bemusement, and was ready to abuse Plato as well. She drew her breath and started yelling in one fluid motion:

“Can’t take it, you poof? I’ll shout at that prancing pansy there as much as I want!”

“You! Shut up!” Sir Plato shooed at her, and looked at Abraham. “Is it you two who have been arguing so?”

“I cannot say that she has brought too many arguments to the field, but she has certainly supplied the volume,” replied the Brit.

“Oh, these women are so uncultivated!”

“Uncultivated, are we?” came Yashy’s reaction. “I’ll uncultivate your face!”

“Shush!” Plato snapped back. “I am tired of you and your petty insults! Abraham is a handsome and sensitive man, while you are just a cleaning lady. So I will ask you to leave us alone. Shoo!”

As much as he hated to admit it, August had to agree with him. Besides, anything more than a minute in the same room as Yashy Yamabushi could drive anyone mad. But Sir Plato the man was still as unpalatable to him as ever. He did not hate him, but everything about his being seemed to confirm all the stereotypes against, well, his kind.

The waiter decided to come to his aid, however, when Yashy attempted to strike back.

“I thought you were going to clean up in cabin fifteen, Yashy?”

She paused at the mention of “cabin fifteen”, the term ostensibly recalling a memory. Without much hesitation, she glared sourly at her quarries and left through the kitchen’s back door, muttering horrible curses under her breath as she went.

After a few seconds, Lord Hamilton also decided that it was time to leave, and went back into the common room. Sir Plato followed closely behind, evidently eyeing new hope.

Shortly thereafter, Alexander seemed to pull himself out of a reverie.

“Oh, right. We should get started on supper. Rachelle, you take care of the cutlery. And you,” he pointed at the waiter, “you’ll find me the ingredients, won’t you? Fine, fine.” He turned to the oven, before looking up again. “Oh, and August?”

“Yes, sire?”

“Find something meaty. We’ll cook up a great big steak tonight.”

“Can do.”
—-


Also: Ooh, foreshadowing. ^_^

its not forshadowing if you say it is.

Yes it is. ^_^

Omens are omens even though they are correctly interpreted.