Tip of the Iceberg Page 11

  Frustrated, he forced himself to walk towards the sturdy looking chair in front of the nurse’s desk, hoping that, given a moment, his speech would return. But his legs felt heavy and unnatural, and he only managed to stagger a few short steps before his legs cramped up. A fierce burning pain seared through his calves and up into his thighs as each muscle, in turn, stiffened. His toes curled inwards, the cramps spreading into his feet. The intolerable pain caused his face to contort as he pitched forward with an inaudible cry of vexation and torment. He made a final desperate and undignified lunge towards the nurse, who, reading his intent, deftly sidestepped his outstretched arms.

  As he crashed to the floor, Patrick felt a cold darkness encircling him. He heard the distant, muffled voice of the nurse calling for the doctor’s help and was vaguely aware of approaching footsteps. A searing pain tore through his insides, every breath stabbed at his lungs as if he were inhaling fine shards of glass, and waves of crushing pressure swept through his head. The cramps that had so debilitated his legs spread up his body affecting his back and upper arms. His whole body burned with an intense fire which started deep within his chest and flowed through his arteries like a tide of molten steel.

  And yet, Patrick still felt cold.

  Sister O’Malley, aided by Doctor Sampson’s arrival, pulled Patrick over onto his back. His body was stiff and unyielding, his limbs rigid. She noticed the skin around his wound had turned greenish-blue in colour, and the rash had spread to his face and neck. She leaned over him, staring down into his tired, bloodshot eyes. They were dull and lifeless, his stare focused on a point far in the distance. She had cared for British troops during the Boer War and knew that look only too well.

  “Sir, can you hear me?” She shook his shoulder gently, but he made no response. She tried again, only with more urgency, her voice raised. “Sir, can you tell me your name?”

  “Let me see!” Doctor Sampson said, crouching next to Patrick’s body. He pulled open Patrick’s eyelid and peered into the opaque iris, causing a droplet of blood nestled in the corner of the eye to trickle out across the mottled cheek. The spreading rash had gathered pace and now covered the entire face. It lay just below the skin’s clammy surface, a spindly web creeping through the translucent tissue which oozed a thin, blood-like fluid forming droplets in the open pores and pooling in the body’s natural crevices.

  Placing his hand on Patrick’s forehead, he continued, “He is feverish. We need to bring his temperature down.” Then, feeling for a carotid pulse, he added, “And his pharynx has swollen. I doubt he will be able to breathe much longer.”

  The Sister, in response to the doctor’s observation about the patient’s fever, was on her way to fetch some wet towels but stopped as Patrick began a series of violent convulsions. Gurgling, rasping gasps emanated from his throat as his body shook uncontrollably, smashing his head repeatedly onto the unforgiving, linoleum-covered deck. Then, as quick as it began, he lay still again.

  Rivulets of blood crisscrossed Patrick’s tired features, running from his nostrils, the corners of his mouth, and his wide, staring eyes. These focused on the doctor in a silent plea for help. The back of his head had become a soggy mass of hair, congealed blood, and torn skin. Doctor Sampson also noticed the convoluted twists of brain tissue pushing through the Irishman’s smashed skull.

  Patrick tried again to speak, a wet gurgle emanated from the back of his throat. Sampson, straining to hear what he knew would be his patient’s final words, bent forward, placing his ear close to the dying man’s lips.

  Without warning, Patrick vomited a fountain of thick, warm blood vertically into the air. It gushed from his throat, hitting the unsuspecting doctor full in the face, before falling back on to his own prostrate form. As the torrent subsided, he let out a rattling cough, sending a fine mist of blood and mucus into the air, which unbeknown to her, Sister O’Malley inhaled as she rushed to the stricken doctor’s aid.

  Patrick McGowan let out a soft groan, his eyes rolling up into his head as he finally slipped into a colder, darker world. His body lay in a sticky pool of blood in a room he, only a few minutes before, walked into feeling only slightly unwell and a little disorientated. Such was the speed of his demise.

  Twenty-three

  Esme stretched her back upwards, rolling her head from side to side. She heard the tiny crinkling, crackling sound of the cartilage and muscles in her neck stretching this way then that, releasing the tension. She rolled her shoulders then rose, a little unsteadily, to her feet. She had spent the entire morning cleaning the silverware for the first class dining saloon, a punishment befitting her crimes according to Miss Wilson, who had taken great pleasure in overseeing her handiwork. She had regularly returned items she judged unsatisfactory, often after no more than a cursory glance.

  Finally, and well past lunchtime, Esme had finished. Miss Wilson had disappeared to supervise cleaning the saloon following the lunch service, leaving a window of opportunity Esme couldn’t pass up. She quickly slipped from the small pantry and hurried through the busy kitchen area before Miss Wilson had cause to notice she was missing. The Old Dragon would go mad when she discovered her absence, but Esme figured she couldn’t possibly get in any more trouble than she already was, so what the hell. Besides, she had more important matters to attend to.

  Esme was concerned for Bridget and needed to check on her. The last time she saw her upper class friend she left her in a room with her drunken ogre of a husband, who had been in the foulest of moods.

  She made her way to the Grafton’s suite and approached their door, intending to knock. Suddenly, it swung open. Esme turned, darting back around the corner. She carefully peeked back towards the open doorway just in time to see William step out into the corridor. He tugged at the bottom of his suit jacket, ensuring it fitted correctly at his sleeves, before pulling the door closed and striding purposefully down the corridor, away from Esme’s crude hiding place.

  She waited for him to round the corner at the far end of the corridor before hurrying to the door, where she knocked with a little more exuberance than necessary; such was her desire to check on her friend.

  Bridget’s voice, muffled by the door, commanded her to, “Enter!”

  Upon entering the suite, Esme was relieved and a little surprised to see Bridget sitting at the Queen Anne style writing desk, obviously catching up with her correspondence. Bridget looked up as Esme closed the door; a thin nervous smile danced briefly on her lips, but soon vanished.

  “Are you alright, Miss? I was so worried after I left you last night.” Esme hurried towards Bridget, and once up close, noticed the faint bruising around the other woman’s eye. Taking a moment to trace the bruise with her fingers, ensuring there was no swelling or evidence of a broken bone she added, “Did that bastard do this to you? Does it hurt?”

  “He tried, but mercifully he’d consumed far too much liquor to connect with most of his blows.” Bridget stood up and taking Esme’s hand, led her to the small couch. Once they were both sitting comfortably, she filled her in on the details of her breakfast with William. She explained about how he found out about the pregnancy, told her about Violet, and finished by telling her about their awkward agreement concerning her unborn child, Violet’s tenuous employment status, and William’s use of the riding crop.

  “I may be no expert, but that ain’t no way to conduct a marriage,” Esme remarked when Bridget finished her tale. She looked at her friend, a troubled look on her face, as she asked, “Will he keep to his side of the deal?”

  “Will he fuck!” Bridget’s use of such coarse language surprised even her, and she giggled self-consciously.

  “Mrs. Grafton!” Esme joined her in shocked giggles.

  Bridget dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief before continuing, “The man is an insufferable snob who has probably never even heard of a suffragette. Even now, I suspect he is with his whore planning to beat the child from my loins.” Her tears were no longer in response to mirth, and
a mere dab of lace was not going to stem their flow.

  Esme reached out and pulled the sobbing Bridget into her embrace while trying to offer some small words of comfort. Bridget’s suggestion that William brought his mistress aboard this ship had taken her aback, and she resolved to question her further when a more suitable time arose. She stroked the distraught woman’s hair, something that had always proved comforting to her young sister, Charlotte. At the thought of her sister, she too began to fight the tears, aware her irresponsible actions would inevitably have dire consequences for them both. With the pretence of showing everything will be fine, Esme rubbed Bridget’s back, seeking her own solace, and immediately felt Bridget flinch.

  Bridget broke the embrace and sat upright, her hands planted demurely in her lap. After a few moments, where it was obvious to Esme Bridget was struggling to convey the right words, she said, “He took the crop to me again last night. He does it to teach me the proper way to behave as his wife, and to punish my misdeeds, but I also know it is, in part, simply to satisfy his own twisted needs. But I shall tolerate it no longer!”

  “But what can you do? Surely he won’t allow you to leave him; the scandal would be too much.” Esme looked perplexed.

  “I may have been a little foolhardy this morning. What was I thinking? He will most likely beat me to death in a drunken rage, cheered on, no doubt, by that treacherous harlot.” Bridget’s voice rose in pitch as she spoke, her eyes widened in panic. She stood up and paced to and fro in front of the couch, her hands clasped so tightly in front of her stomach, the whites of her knuckles showed.

  “Oh, please calm down, Ma’am. You will distress yourself and the baby.” Esme worried for her friend, her rate of breathing had increased, the breaths short and sharp, and her eyes darted from side to side as if she were having a heated argument within her own head.

  Trying to calm the rich American socialite, Esme grabbed her shoulders. Giving her a gentle shake to regain her attention, she said, “I doubt even he would believe he could get away with your murder, and at the very least, your antics at breakfast have given him something to think about. I suspect he will not resort to the crop again for fear of people discovering the truth about him. You are not a common street tart whose death would go unnoticed. You are a lady of privilege, wealth, and connections. If you were to disappear or even suffer injury, people would notice.”

  “But people have not noticed when he’s beaten me in the past,” responded Bridget. She had calmed slightly, her breathing, while still rapid, was deeper and more deliberate as if she were making a conscious effort to gain control.

  “Because he has everyone fooled into thinking he is so wonderful and debonair, with his young, attractive wife. From the outside you are the perfect couple; it’s a perfect smoke screen, and you have been too scared of what people will think of you to speak up. And that bastard knows it.” Esme could tell her words were striking a chord with Bridget. She began nodding in tacit agreement and appeared much calmer. As a result, her next comment caught Esme off guard.

  “I should kill him first.” She looked straight into Esme’s eyes as she spoke the words in a flat, measured tone, and Esme knew Bridget was affording the notion serious consideration.

  “I think you should put away such thoughts. If you do murder Mr. Grafton, then they will hang you for sure.” She tried to guide Bridget back to the couch, hoping this would draw the conversation to a close. But Bridget wouldn’t be deterred.

  “If I remain in this marriage then I would be putting myself and my child, especially my child, in mortal danger. As a mother, what else am I to do? I can’t simply leave him, and he would never allow me a divorce. Suppose I did escape his clutches, then what? No one would want a woman with a bastard child, and I would get no financial help from William. I would be destitute, and likely as not, have to prostitute myself to put food on the table.”

  Esme noticed the sparkle in Bridget’s eyes as she paused for a moment to regain her breath, before continuing excitedly. “So you see, I have to kill him because I would then inherit his wealth. After all, I did marry him for his money, it would be impossible to marry that man for love!”

  Bridget’s suggestion that she’d married William for money alone shocked Esme. Somewhere in the back of her mind she couldn’t shake the notion his untimely death had featured strongly in his bride’s wedding plans. Not that she cared one jot for the man. He was, without doubt, a violent bully, and she had personally witnessed his handiwork with the riding crop, not to mention his interference had cost her the position aboard ship. However, the Grafton’s marriage was, at least as far as the gossip columns reported, a fairy tale, and she continued to be dumbfounded by the revelations she had become privy too.

  Suddenly aware Bridget was looking at her expectantly, awaiting her to pass comment on the circumstances as she’d explained them, Esme said, her voice no more than a murmur, “But how? The police will not stop in their search for the killer of such an important man. You can’t possibly expect to get away with it?”

  “We need it to look like an accident,” Bridget sounded distracted. She was silent for a few seconds, lost in thought then, as an idea began to take shape in her mind, she became more animated. When she again looked at Esme, her face had gained a natural glow. “An intruder possibly, set on some nefarious deed. I am sure, with our feminine wiles, we could find ourselves a suitable patsy.” Then seeing the confused look on the young woman’s face, Bridget added helpfully, “Someone we could trick into taking the blame.”

  Esme, on who Bridget’s switch to the term we had not gone unnoticed, was not convinced. “I still say you are taking a great risk with your neck, besides, it would be wrong, evil even, to trick a fool into placing the noose around his own neck.”

  “That may be so, but as unconscionable as it is, the alternatives facing me are even more unpalatable. I accept it is a risky venture, but one I must embark on if I am to survive.” Bridget’s bravado slipped and she looked like a lost little girl as she asked quietly, “Please, will you help me?”

  Twenty-four

  Bernard slid into the first class Veranda café unchallenged. He had already secured a key to the metal grills separating the first and second class areas of the ship. It had always been his experience that everything and everyone had a price. The trick was finding it. In this endeavour, Bernard had received the invaluable help of Lady Luck the night before they left Southampton. Having taken a room in an old coaching inn situated little more than a stone’s throw from the docks, he spent the evening enjoying a fine meal and experiencing the local ale. At the next table sat four men who spent most of the evening talking about their experiences working the Atlantic crossing. They compared amusing anecdotes and talked at length about their upcoming crossing on board the Titanic. Hearing this, Bernard asked the bartender to provide the table with another round of drinks while he introduced himself, claiming to be a reporter down from London to cover the ship’s departure. He spent a couple of hours with the men, who turned out to be ship’s stewards, observing them carefully.

  Bernard prided himself on his ability to read people and wasn’t surprised when two of the men made their excuses and left the table. He watched as they left the hostelry by a side door then, draining his own ale, he excused himself from the table, citing a call of nature as the reason. Then he casually sauntered to the side door and stepped out into the chill of the evening, pulling his coat on as he looked up and down the narrow lane onto which he emerged.

  To his left, the lane opened onto the main thoroughfare, and he could hear the voices and occasional laughter of revellers out enjoying the night. To his right, the lane led to a catacomb of small alleyways and crooked paths, servicing the shops and traders that provided for the dockworkers and their families.

  Here and there, an occasional light cast an eerie glow, serving only to intensify the darkness of the surrounding shadows. It was in this direction that Bernard hastened, stepping lightly, the element of
surprise being pivotal to his plan.

  He followed the sidewall of the pub then cut across the courtyard towards the stables at the rear. He exercised caution at every turn so as not to stumble blindly into anything or anyone. Arriving at the end stable, he stood quietly in the shadows and watched as the two stewards fornicated in the straw.

  Bernard had observed their sly glances, the gentle touch of hands and the almost imperceptible nod that passed between the men just before they left the bar. He waited a while, picking his moment, before stepping into the light. From then on it was only a little matter of blackmail, his stock-in-trade, and he had a key to pass freely through the dividing gates.

  He looked around the café while waiting for a vacant table. It appeared, and the maître d’ confirmed Mrs. Black had not yet arrived. He’d sent her a note, conveyed by one of the over-amorous stewards who were still eager to ensure his continued silence, inviting her to join him for a light lunch followed, perhaps, by a stroll on the promenade. Bernard was eager to reel his catch in before the ship docked in New York, and he lost the romantic advantage afforded him by the ship’s grandeur.

  Once seated at his table, he only had to wait a few minutes before the object of his financial desire strolled confidently into the café. As the maître d’ escorted her to their table, Bernard took the opportunity to appraise Kathleen Black’s classic good looks, deciding that, should he have to seal the deal in the boudoir, it would not be an unfortunate state of affairs. As she approached his table, he stood to receive her, subconsciously smoothing his bushy moustache as he did so.