Chapter 2 #2
As Arbuckle explained matters to Alec, he and Daisy kept their eyes on the gang-plank. They were taken by surprise when a jovial voice, pure Yorkshire in intonation, came from behind.
“Arbuckle!”
“Gotobed!” Arbuckle swung round. “I saw you coming up the gang-plank. I’d recognize that monstrosity on your head a mile off.”
Turning, Daisy saw the man in the grey overcoat with its unfashionable cape and the red-and-green-plaid, fore-and-aft cap. He certainly wasn’t dressed like a millionaire.
Beside him, her arm linked possessively through his, stood the woman in pink.
Close to, the setting sun full on her face, her heavy maquillage failed to hide the fact that she was a good ten years older than Daisy had expected.
Her best feature was her wide, dark eyes.
Daisy was not good at judging clothes, but the costume appeared to be expensively tailored.
Could the large, rather flashy rosette brooch holding the feathers in her hat be composed of real rubies?
“All ashore that’s going ashore!”
“Hadn’t you better …,” Arbuckle started.
Gotobed laughed, his broad, ruddy face bright. “Oh, she’s not going ashore. My dear, this is my Yankee friend, Caleb P. Arbuckle. Arbuckle, meet Mrs. Gotobed.”
As Arbuckle gaped, aghast, Mrs. Gotobed simpered.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, in a husky contralto with a careful refinement far more painful to the discerning ear than any undisguised provincial accent.
With a frankly curious, slightly myopic stare at Daisy, she added, “This must be your charming daughter, Mr. Arbuckle, that I’ve heard so much about from Mr. Gotobed. ”
Since Arbuckle was still apparently speechless, Daisy stepped into the breech. “No, as a matter of fact, I’m a friend of Mr. Arbuckle and the Petries—Daisy Dal——Daisy Fletcher, and this is my husband, Alec. How do you do?”
“How do you do?” Alec echoed politely, raising his hat.
“Very well, thank you, and ever so pleased to meet any friend of Mr. Arbuckle’s, aren’t we, Dickie?
That’s what I call Mr. Gotobed,” Mrs. Gotobed said confidentially.
“Richard’s his middle name, see. Jethro’s his first, but such a mouthful.
I mean, what can you make of it? ‘Jethie’ just sounds like you’re lisping. ”
“It does, rather,” Daisy agreed, avoiding Alec’s eye lest she giggle. “How do you do, Mr. Gotobed?” She held out her hand.
He shook it heartily. With a doting glance at his wife, he explained, in a voice from which practically all Yorkshire influence had vanished, “We got married just a couple of days ago, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s been quite a rush, what with getting Wanda put on my passport and all.”
“Mr. Gotobed swept me off my feet, wouldn’t take no for an answer. We’ll wait till you get back from America, I says, but he wouldn’t have it, would you, Dickie-bird?”
“I couldn’t risk losing you to some other lucky man,” Gotobed said simply.
The requisite congratulations were forthcoming, Arbuckle speaking them as if they puckered his mouth like pure vinegar. Daisy thought his dismay excessive.
She didn’t suppose Mrs. Gotobed to be madly in love with her elderly husband, but she appeared to be mildly fond of him.
There seemed no reason why she should not cheer his declining years—not that he looked likely to decline in the near future.
Arbuckle said the Yorkshireman had never married before, so there were no children to be done out of his millions.
“But where are Mr. and Mrs. Petrie?” Gotobed asked. “Wanda is eager to meet them.”
“Oh yes, I’m ever so keen. Mr. Gotobed’s told me all about them. Mr. Petrie’s the son of a lord, isn’t he? An Honourable?”
Arbuckle glanced at Daisy and opened his mouth.
Daisy frowned at him fiercely. She didn’t want Wanda Gotobed, or anyone else on board, sucking up to her because she, too, had an Honorable before her name.
Alec was likewise incognito. Perfectly ordinary, law-abiding people tended to get shifty-eyed if they discovered there was a Scotland Yard detective among them.
“Gloria and Phillip have gone to take a look at the ship’s engines,” Arbuckle told the Gotobeds. “And I guess you’ll be wanting to take a look at your stateroom—cabin, as you Britishers call it.”
“Mr. Gotobed’s taken a de luxe suite for us, not just a cabin. My maid’s down there unpacking. He made me bring a maid, you know. He says you just can’t rely on the stewardesses.”
“I expect they’re frightfully overworked today, poor things,” said Daisy, who had unpacked and put away her own and Alec’s things. The years since her father’s death had accustomed her to doing for herself. She didn’t want a stranger pawing through her belongings.
Mrs. Gotobed gave her an unexpectedly sharp look. “Yes, I s’pose they are busy,” she quickly agreed, “poor things. Dickie-bird, let’s go and take a peek at our suite.”
“Right you are, love. Arbuckle, Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, I hope you and the Petries will join us there before dinner and drink a toast to my lovely bride.”
They all accepted, Daisy trying to sound enthusiastic enough to make up for Arbuckle’s lack of enthusiasm. The newly-weds departed.
At that moment, the Talavera’s steam whistle let go with an ear-shattering blast. Daisy jumped.
“Last warning for those going ashore,” said Arbuckle gloomily, staring after them. “Which she’s not. Wanda Gotobed. What a name! You’d think that alone would be enough to make him forget about marrying her. Must be all the old goat’s thinking about, though, because why else …”
Alec coughed.
Arbuckle blushed. “Pardon me, Mrs. Fletcher. This business has me in such a tizzy, I’m forgetting my manners. No offence, I hope!”
“No offence,” Daisy assured him. “But I don’t believe it’s as bad as you fear.
She may be … well, common, but if he’s the son of a farm labourer, that very likely suits him better than a wife who might look down on him.
And you say he has plenty of money. The worst she can do now is help him spend it. I expect he’ll enjoy the process.”