Singing in the Shrouds by Ngaio Marsh

win.”
    “After all, it’s the interpretation that matters.”
    “There’s great virtue in perception alone. Pure scientific observation that is content to set down observed fact after observed fact—”
    “Followed by pure scientific interpretation that adds them all up and makes a nonsense.”
    “Why should you say that?” he asked gently. “It’s you that’s making a nonsense.”
    “Well, I must say!”
    “To revert to Aubyn Dale. What about his big thing on TV? Advertising women’s bathing clothes—
Pack Up Your Troubles
. In other words, ‘Come to me, everybody that’s got a bellyache, and I’ll put you before my public and pay you for it.’ If I were a religious man I’d call it blasphemy.”
    “I don’t say I
like
what he does—”
    “Still, he does make an ass of himself good and proper, on occasions. Witness the famous Molton Medbury Midsummer Muckup.”
    “I never heard exactly what happened.”
    “He was obviously plastered. He went round televising the Molton Medbury flower show with old Lady Agatha Panthing. You could see he was plastered before he spoke and when he did speak he said the first prize in the competition went to Lady Agatha’s umbilicus globular. He meant,” Timothy explained, “
Agapanthus umbellatus globosus
. I suppose it shattered him because after that a sort of rot set in and at intervals he broke into a recrudescence of spoonerisms. It went on for weeks. Only the other day he was going all springlike over a display of hyacinths and said that in arranging them all you really needed was a ‘turdy stable.’ ”
    “Oh,
no
! Poor chap. How too shaming for him!”
    “So he shaved off his fetching little imperial and I expect he’s taking a long sea voyage to forget. He’s in pretty poor shape, I fancy.”
    “Do you? What sort of poor shape?”
    “Oh, neurosis,” Timothy said shortly, “of some sort. I should think.”
    The xylophonic gong began its inconsequent chiming on the bridge-house.
    “Good Lord, that’s for
eating
!” Timothy exclaimed.
    “What
will
you say to your host?”
    “I’ll say I had an urgent case among the greasers. But I’d better just show up. Sorry to have been such a bore. Good-bye, now,” said Tim attempting a brogue.
    He walked rapidly away.
    To her astonishment and slightly to her resentment Brigid found that she was ravenously hungry.
     
    The Cape Company is a cargo line. The fact that six of its ships afford accommodation for nine passengers each does not in any way modify the essential function of the company. It merely postulates that in the case of these six ships there shall be certain accommodation. There will also be a chief steward without any second string, a bar-and-passengers steward and an anomalous offsider who may be discovered by the passengers polishing the taps in their cabins at unexpected moments. The business of housing, feeding, and within appropriate limits, entertaining the nine passengers is determined by the head office and then becomes part of the captain’s many concerns.
    On the whole, Captain Bannerman preferred to carry no passengers, and always regarded them as potential troublemakers. When, however, somebody of Mrs. Dillington-Blick’s calibre appeared in his ship, his reaction corresponded punctually with that of ninety per cent of all other males whom she encountered. He gave orders that she should be placed at his table (which luckily was all right anyway because she carried V.I.P. letters), and until Alleyn’s arrival, had looked forward to the voyage with the liveliest anticipation of pleasurable interludes. He was, he considered, a young man for his age.
    Aubyn Dale he also took at his table because Dale was famous and Captain Bannerman felt that in a way he would be flattering Mrs. Dillington-Blick by presenting her with a number one personality. Now he decided, obscurely and resentfully, that Alleyn also would be an impressive addition to the table. The rest of the seating he left