Tip of the Iceberg Read online

  Bridget, determined not to make a sound, pushed her face into the pillow as her husband struggled with the laces of his expensive shoes. Finally defeated, he resorted to prising them off with his feet before kicking them noisily across the room. The exertion obviously getting the better of him, she heard him breathing heavily for a few seconds before he mumbled a few coarse words.

  Then he swung his legs up onto the bed.

  Bridget froze, resisting the urge to hold her breath, as William leant over her. His warm, vile smelling exhalations tickled her neck. His hands, the same hands she knew had, without a doubt, caressed his lover now embraced her, his fingers encircling her breast. She rolled over slightly as if his presence had momentarily disturbed her sleep, trapping his hand under her body.

  William pulled it free with a frustrated sigh then, clearly unwilling to give up his drunken fumbling just yet, ran his hand roughly across her buttocks and down between her thighs.

  Bridget forced her face deeper into the pillow, trying to stem the tears that streamed from her burning eyes. She felt humiliated. He did not even have the good grace to stay clear of his mistress for one day, and now, aroused by that sinful siren’s song, he returned to the marital bed with a desire to violate her, his wife.

  But then, as quickly as they had begun, William’s clumsy attempts at seduction abruptly ended, and he slumped back on the bed with a loud groan. The smell of his breath almost brought Bridget to the point of gagging.

  Bridget lay listening to the deep, guttural snoring of the monster she married only a few short months before. Her hands lovingly cradled her still small bump and she knew, the way a mother knows, her child wasn’t safe; her child would never be safe.

  Brazenly calling his bluff at breakfast, Bridget believed the threat of revealing his scandalous affair to the world would be enough to thwart his drunken womanizing and violent domestic chastisement, but she was wrong. He ran straight to his whore; how she must have revelled in the moment. Bridget knew with undying certainty, she and her child were in mortal danger.

  William was a monster who believed his own ego and considered himself superior to all those around him. How dare she, a mere girl, fresh from her debutant ball, and a damned Yankee to boot, challenge his superiority? She must have been crazy to believe she could stand in the way of Captain William Grafton. He was the epitome of all that was wrong with the English establishment. He was arrogant, conceited, and in possession of too much wealth and privilege to behave any differently. She had known him long enough to know his Harrovian old boy network stretched its tentacles into every facet of English life, from the judiciary to the Palace of Westminster and on down Birdcage Walk to the heart of Englishness, Buckingham Palace.

  They would view her as a simple annoyance, a mere fly in his ointment, easily removed and disposed of, leaving him to grieve publicly the loss of his new wife while privately setting up his den of iniquity with Violet.

  Before she knew it, Bridget had slipped from their bed to stand over her husband’s slumbering form. Sprawled drunk across the crisp white linen, he still cut the dashing and handsome figure of the military gentleman who had swept her off her feet. Finding out he was wealthy to the point of obscenity made up for his advancing years and, in her eyes, sealed the deal.

  She picked up her pillow which still held the warmth from where her head had rested; still damp from the tears she shed. Tears for his falsehoods, tears for her frustrations, then simply tears of fear. Tears that had watered the seeds of her revengeful deeds until finally, they had grown to fruition.

  With shaking hands, she slowly lowered the pillow until it hovered a few inches above his face. She felt sick; the shaking spread throughout her body. With a sudden urgency, it was now or never, she covered his sleeping face, forcing the soft pillow down with all her strength.

  There was no going back. Bridget knew she would live or die in the next few moments. For a second, maybe two, he made no movement as if neither she nor the pillow even existed.

  Then, with a muffled roar, he exploded into action. He tried lifting his head, but Bridget forced the pillow downward with all her might. He clawed at her hands, prising her fingers away one by one. Gradually loosening her grip, little bit by little bit. She realized with horror, that in a moment he would be free.

  Free to extract his revenge in the only way he knew.

  With an energetic leap, she brought her knees crashing down on his unprotected chest just as she lost her grip on the pillow. It slipped to the side revealing half his face. One accusing eye, catching the pale moonlight, stared up at her. The force of her knees landing on his chest drove the breath from his body, stunning him for what, to Bridget, were a valuable few seconds.

  William struggled to gulp in the late-night air as Bridget pressed home her advantage. She pinned his arms with her bare knees, her silk gown riding up to expose her thighs, as she again forced the pillow over his shadowy features.

  As a young girl, she learned to ride on a farm outside of Boston. She persuaded the stable hands, when her governess became engrossed in her embroidery, to teach her to ride like a gentleman instead of the more sedate and ladylike sidesaddle. She now put this skill to use riding his bucking torso, her knees pinning his arms to the bed, as she suffocated him with her soft, comfortable pillow.

  His bucking became more frantic. His body pitched left and right, his knees slamming her in the back, as he fought for his life.

  Bridget tightened her grip on the pillow and held on. Rolling her hips with each of his increasingly desperate thrusts, she kept downward pressure on the pillow. Each time his knee smashed into her back, the pain exploded across her shoulders and followed the line of every scar he left on her fair skin, renewing her resolve.

  Bridget clung on. It was the ride of her life.

  Finally, after what, to Bridget, had become an eternity, his knees stopped their insistent thumping on her back, his legs falling back on the bed. His movements grew ever more sporadic. His weak hands scrabbled frantically at the lily-white flesh of her thighs in a final desperate attempt to free himself. Then, with a shudder, his body fell still, his hands gently sliding back onto the pale sheets.

  Still, she clung on. Her breath coming in short, staccato gasps, her body slick with sweat.

  Bridget remained sitting on the pillow. The moonlight creeping through the porthole picked out the whiteness of her nightgown, turning it silver. She sat in the darkness astride her dead husband’s body like a shimmering angel until her legs hurt. Until she was sure Captain William Grafton could hurt her no more.

  Then Bridget slid from the bed, being careful not to dislodge the pillow from his face. She knew the sight of that one dispraising eye, and its contemptuous, unblinking stare would haunt her to the grave, a destination, she feared, her actions had only hastened.

  She kept her gaze fixed on his lifeless body while slowly backing across the room. Her outstretched arm searched the surrounding darkness for the dressing table, and the drawer containing the beastly riding crop that had caused her so much pain and anguish during her short marriage. Locating the drawer, her hands fumbled through its contents until her fingers brushed against the crop’s smooth coldness.

  Taking a deep breath, forcing her nervousness back into the pit of her stomach, Bridget picked up the whip. She took a few absentminded practice swings, the sound of it whipping through the air caused her to flinch involuntarily. Some deep-rooted and extraordinarily primal neurosis caused a burning sensation to sear through the scars on her back.

  Her knuckles turned white as her pent-up anger and frustration boiled over. Until then, she had acted with cold, calculated premeditation. But now, released from the fear of failure, her rage consumed her. It wasn’t just his adultery or the clockwork regularity of his beatings that propelled her across the room, her arm raised high above her head. It was his arrogance. William had, right up to his death, believed he could pursue whatever path he chose and no one, especially his wife, was worthy o
f consideration.

  She beat his corpse with brisk, violent strokes. The unforgiving crop swishing and swooshing, back and forth as she landed blow after blow, tearing his fine cotton shirt and flaying his torso until, exhausted and breathless, she sank to the floor. As she drifted off to sleep, lying next to the bed containing the shredded body of her husband, Bridget’s lips wore the gentle curve of contentment.

  Twenty-eight

  The chambermaid knocked on the Grafton’s door the following morning and, receiving no reply, entered the suite to change the bed linen and refresh the towels. Thinking the occupants had gone to breakfast or were, perhaps, enjoying a romantic early morning stroll on the promenade, she began by tidying up the reception room. It wasn’t until she entered the inner room, the suite’s bedroom, she discovered Mrs. Grafton lying, almost naked, on the floor.

  The maid hurried to her aid, thinking she must have fallen from the bed during the night and had somehow injured herself. It wasn’t until she stood beside the bed, above Bridget’s prostrate form, that she discovered the full horror of the night’s events.

  The gentleman, a man the young chambermaid understood to be a person of not inconsiderable importance, was obviously dead, his torso torn and bloodstained, his face half covered by a pillow. His one visible eye was sunken and shot through with tiny veins giving it a blood red hue, while his skin appeared, even in the early morning light, to have taken on a blue tinge.

  The maid drew breath to scream but only managed a choked gurgle as she wheeled away to deposit the contents of her stomach on the plush carpet. She was still retching and trying to wipe away the strands of vomit and spittle from her chin when she became aware of a figure standing next to her. She looked up into the pale but concerned face of Mrs. Grafton and, thinking her to be a ghost, promptly fainted.

  Bridget looked at the fresh-faced girl lying on her carpet for a moment, but then the smell of vomit assailed her nostrils, triggering her own bout of early morning nausea. She rushed to the bathroom, and having vomited and rinsed out her mouth, returned with a small glass of water which she set down on the carpet next to the chambermaid who was beginning to come around.

  “I am so terribly sorry,” said Bridget, as if waking next to a badly beaten dead body was a common occurrence for her, and one the chambermaid would, given time, get used too.

  The fresh-faced young girl looked up, her brow furrowed, her eyes darting from the figure on the bed to Mrs. Grafton and then towards the door leading out into the ante-chamber.

  Bridget placed her hand on the girl’s arm. She stared back, a mixture of panic and terror filled her eyes. Bridget smiled, trying to soften her dishevelled appearance.

  “Are you alright, I’m sure you must’ve had quite a shock, but I can assure you I am quite alive.” She looked across at her husband’s limp, lifeless body adding, “I fear, I cannot say the same for him.”

  The chambermaid climbed gingerly to her feet, never once taking her gaze from the bed. Bridget offered her hand, but the maid seemed not to have noticed, or simply refused to accept help from such a distinguished lady. Then in a faltering voice, said, “We must alert the crew, whoever attacked you, killed your ’usband, they might not be finished.” She made no effort to leave the room, choosing instead to stare at the wounds slashed across William’s slightly flabby body.

  “I need you to listen very carefully,” Bridget said, taking the girl’s hands in hers. “Do you know Esme, the maid who cleaned this suite before you?” The teenager nodded in confirmation. “I need you to find her and tell her Mrs. Graf, tell her, Bridget needs her.” She eyed the young girl suspiciously, unsure whether to trust her. “Can you do that for me? Neither you nor I are in any danger, and it is of vital importance you tell no one about what you saw. I promise, when Esme gets here, I will tell you what happened.”

  The maid nodded again and Bridget led her to the door, reiterating the importance of her task. Once the door had shut, Bridget, aware her life rested in the hands of a girl barely old enough to sprout breasts, whispered quietly in a language more suited to the ranch hands who taught her to ride, than a lady of London society. “Holy fuckin’ shit!”

  Bridget stood by the door for a few moments using its frame for support. Both her heart and her mind were racing and she felt hemmed in, trapped in her own tale of horror.

  Her knees buckled and she felt sick again, but by the grace of God, she remained upright. Fainting wasn’t an option, she had far too much to organize if she were to avoid the hangman’s noose and not much time to do it.

  She stumbled towards the bedroom, devoting her entire concentration to the simple process of walking, to get dressed. If the chambermaid, who was undoubtedly running scared, were to tell the crew of William’s death, and the master-at-arms arrested her, throwing her into the ship’s brig, then Bridget was going to dress for the occasion. It would be extremely bad form to be arrested in one’s nightgown, especially one splattered with the victim’s blood.

  Bridget stood naked in front of the mirror patting her body dry when the knock came. Before she could protect her modesty with the towel, the door swung open just long enough to admit Esme. She was alone and out of breath. The two women rushed to embrace each other. Bridget was so glad to see a friendly face she made no further effort to cover herself, the towel discarded on the floor.

  Esme returned the intensity of the embrace, aware of the grave danger her friend had endured to rid herself of such a tyrannical beast. She was glad to see her safe and well. Over Bridget’s bare shoulder, Esme saw William’s cadaver lying on the bed. It wore an evening suit, although much of the front of the shirt was either shredded or coloured a deep coppery brown colour, and no shoes. The face, partially covered by a large pillow, was uppermost and a riding crop lay on the floor, close to the bed.

  “Are you alright, Bridge? Did he harm you?” Esme gently stroked her friend’s soft auburn hair as Bridget sobbed into her shoulder. She felt a tremor pass through the woman’s body and the sobbing, momentarily, grew stronger. Esme pursed her lips, determined not to cry. Bridget needed her to be strong.

  After a minute or so had passed, Bridget raised her head and looked directly into Esme’s face. Her damp, puffy eyes, rimmed red, searched her friend’s face as she carefully considered her words. When she spoke, her voice was barely more than a throaty snivel.

  “He returned from his lover smelling of her perfume. Smelling of my perfume. Yet, he still expected me to perform my wifely duties. He groped me in a pathetic attempt to get me to acquiesce to his needs, while I pretended to be sleeping. His touch repulsed me, and it was all I could do not to be sick.” Bridget shuddered at the memory, and Esme rushed to collect her robe. Pulling it on, Bridget continued in a stronger voice, her words spilling unchecked from her mouth. “Luckily, he had drunk to excess and soon passed out on the bed, how you see him now. I knew he would never change, and while he lived I would live my life in constant fear. A condition I’m not prepared to tolerate. So in that small moment, I seized the opportunity. Placing a pillow across his sleeping features, holding on, quite literally, for dear life until his struggles ceased, and I was sure he had breathed his last.”

  “But the blood? You said you killed him with a pillow, but that does not explain the blood?” Esme now stood next to the bed, staring down at William’s flayed torso.

  “I allowed rage to overcome good sense and took the riding crop to him. A stupid act of revenge which, in the harsher light of day, I fear may lead to my downfall,” lamented Bridget. Then, remembering the chambermaid she’d entrusted to find Esme, added, “Where is the other girl?”

  “She is finishing my tasks, far too scared to come back, but she won’t tell anyone. I’ll speak to her later, but for now, we need a plan.” Esme was thinking aloud. She knew that if they put a foot wrong now, Bridget would meet her end dangling from a hangman’s rope.

  “I did wonder if Mr. Moody would help. I believe he has something of a soft spot for me.”
/>   Esme shook her head. “He may have. But I doubt he would risk his position over the promise of a night between your thighs. Let alone the risk of a murder charge. Once you tell him what happened, he would be duty bound to tell both the captain and the police in New York.” She began pacing, a faraway look etched on her face.

  Bridget sat down in one of the imitation Queen Anne chairs and slumped forward, head in her hands. She watched Esme with admiration as she paced up and down, wrestling with her thoughts, one of life’s survivors. She was too tired to even think straight and wanted nothing more than to pull William’s body from the bed, then curl up and go to sleep.

  “Get dressed and go to breakfast. If anyone asks, just tell them your husband is unwell, but remain vague in the details.” Esme started laying clothes out on the other chair for Bridget to wear. “That deception will buy us some time, but it will be valuable time, allowing me to arrange your disappearance.”

  Bridget looked at Esme with some confusion. “Arrange for me to disappear? How do you plan to do that? Even Houdini himself would struggle to make someone disappear, even on a ship this big.”

  “It’s just a case of smoke and mirrors or, in this case, my clothes and a fake suicide. You just go to breakfast and leave me to do some planning,” Esme explained with a smile Bridget thought both confident, and if she were honest, slightly unnerving.

  Twenty-nine

  Bernard ate a hasty, but generous, breakfast in the second class dining saloon. He woke to find Patrick’s bunk not only empty, but displaying no evidence of having been slept in, and this worried him. The last time he saw his traveling companion, a sour-faced and abrupt nurse had taken charge of him, guiding him to a chair. Patrick had looked terrified. Like a lost child, confused at what to do and unsure who to trust. The wound on his face had looked red and angry and the dark, thread-like rash, which appeared only minutes before, had already shown evidence of spreading throughout his body, darkening in colour as each second ticked by.