Tip of the Iceberg Page 15

  “You would have to prove his vile actions against you, and I bet the prosecution will find ten, or even a hundred, witnesses to say what a kind, thoughtful, and caring man he was. They’ll paint a vivid picture of him as a mild-mannered saint, seduced and killed by the attractive she-devil, simply for his money.” Esme felt the anger rising within her as she laid out her clothes on the bed for Bridget to view. She brushed the long dress down to remove a few straggling threads and a fine layer of dust which all dresses gathered, no matter how well they are stored. Her right hand slapped against the fabric with enough force to sting and give her palm a warm, pink glow.

  “Again, you speak with the sense of a woman much older than your years. If I am at liberty and in need of a lady with a resourceful and loyal disposition to run my house, and I fear Violet may have blotted her copy book to this regard, then I will do far worse than to keep you close.” For the first time since Esme entered the room, Bridget smiled.

  Esme looked up from the dress, stunned and confused by Bridget’s words. “Ar ... are you offering me a position in your household?” She finally stammered as Bridget smiled at her from across the bed.

  “If I escape with my liberty, then yes. But I think it would be better if I lived in America, well away from William’s family. Would that suit you?”

  For a moment, Esme smiled. Then her face fell. “I cannot. I must look after my sister, I’m all she has. Our mother is incapable and better left alone, but Charlotte needs me and, if truth be told, I her.” At the thought of her younger sister, Esme’s eyes dampened and her throat tightened, causing the final part of her sentence to be not much more than a high-pitched sob. She slumped onto the bed, her face buried in her hands, as her shoulders shook with each uncontrolled sob.

  Bridget hurried around the bed to comfort her. She sat beside Esme drawing her into her embrace. “Hey, don’t cry,” she cooed, her own problems momentarily forgotten. “I would insist on her coming with you, why have one—what’s your surname?” Bridget felt horrified and embarrassed at having to ask when Esme had put so much at risk in helping her.

  “Jackson,” Esme snivelled into Bridget’s shoulder.

  “Why have one resourceful Jackson sister around, when you can have two? If she’s half as astute as you, we’ll make a formidable trio.” Bridget rubbed Esme’s back in what she hoped was a soothing way.

  “Charlotte’s the feisty one, always fighting with the boys at school over something or nothing. If there’s trouble to be found, she’ll find it.” Esme laughed softly, remembering her sister. “In the Belvedere one day, because mother was too drunk to look after her, Charlotte took offence to one of my over-amorous suitors. She kicked him full in the shin then ran away with the disgruntled sailor hobbling comically after her.”

  “Then we shall have more fun and be more formidable.” Bridget laughed. Turning her attention to the dress, she added, “Time I tried this on, I guess.”

  Thirty-one

  Elizabeth sat in F Deck’s main corridor playing with Betty, her shabby, well-worn, and well-loved rag doll. Her Papa had given her Betty the day he went away to find a new life for his family, and since that moment, they’d been inseparable. At six years old, and in her eyes almost a grown up, Elizabeth told all her important secrets to Betty, who listened with a fixed, woolly smile, never judging, never getting angry with her the way Mama sometimes did, and never ever telling.

  Soon she and Mama would be in ’Merica, and she would see her Papa again; although, secretly she felt scared she wouldn’t recognize him after so long. Betty knew this and didn’t seem worried so she tried not to show she was scared. After all, she was so nearly all grown up.

  But what if Betty was wrong? ’Merica was such a big place, Mama said so all the time. What if they couldn’t find Papa? What if Papa had forgotten them? Elizabeth pulled her legs up to her chest, like at night when the darkness frightened her, and peered over her knees at the big brown eyes of her new friend.

  “Do you think I’ll ever see Papa again?” She rubbed the tear from her cheek with an angry sniff. Her new friend, no bigger than Betty, pulled back her ears, flattening them against her head, which she cocked to one side inquisitively at the sound of the little girl’s voice. The cute little creature looked like it was carefully considering her question, its huge, chocolate eyes staring right back at Elizabeth the way Mama’s did when she thought of Papa.

  “Well?” Patience was not one of Elizabeth’s strong points. She wiped away another tear, this time with the hem of her dress, and stared back at the tiny bundle sitting frustratingly silent a few feet beyond Elizabeth’s hunched-up knees. Elizabeth talked to Betty all the time, and Betty always replied, the words coming from deep inside Elizabeth’s own head. But her new friend, the creature must be her friend because it chose to sit next to her, remained silent.

  Elizabeth thought the animal looked sad, even a little bit frightened. She pushed out her bottom lip, turning it inside out. The tiny creature tried to copy her, its lips appearing larger and more pliable than hers. It pulled its lips back from the gums to reveal sharp looking teeth, four of which appeared longer and sharper than the rest.

  Then the animal moved closer, no longer looking sad and frightened. It looked angry and frightening, its long tail arched and curled over its head as it crept towards Elizabeth, teeth bared.

  Elizabeth buried her face in her knees, her arms hugging her shins, pulling herself into a tight, safe ball. She felt the tail swish against her hand. It was warm and soothing, yet strong, powerful and menacing. It curled around her fingers, flicked against her wrist then slowly wound around her small, lily-white forearm. She shook with fear, frozen to the spot. She felt her urine trickle into her undergarments, soaking her thighs and pooling on the floor between her legs.

  The tail uncoiled from her arm, and with a flick, was gone. A warm breath, and a soft throaty growl, filled the shell of her ear. Something warm and prickly, almost like Papa’s thick, bushy beard, nuzzled her neck. Elizabeth wanted to scream, but when she opened her mouth, there was no sound, her throat tight and dry.

  Then it was gone. Elizabeth remained huddled in a tight ball, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to look. Movement! And close, a puff of cold air blew across her legs. Something rustled next to her, and she heard a gentle sigh.

  “Elizabeth!” The sound of her nanny’s shrill voice, with its rough, abrasive East European-East London meld dragged her from her torpor. Elizabeth lifted her head from her knees and looked up into Nanny Catharina Kovac’s dour, angular features. She stood with her feet together, hands firmly clasped below her breasts, a look of disappointment verging on mild frustration etched on her thin face, her eyes fixed on the pool of urine seeping from between her charge’s legs.

  Elizabeth shot a glance along the corridor in both directions. There was no sign of the tiny human-like animal that a moment earlier wanted to gobble her up.

  “The creature ... it scared me,” Elizabeth said feebly, aware Nanny Catharina’s disappointed face usually led to far worse punishments than her angry face did.

  “There was no creature. You are getting your imaginations to run away with you.” Nanny Catharina’s accent wasn’t heavy, but Elizabeth thought her sentences never sounded quite right.

  “But I saw it, Mistress Kovac. It was right here!” She slapped her palm on the thin carpeting as if to highlight her point.

  “Get up, child.” Her voice had grown stern in response to Elizabeth’s petulance.

  Elizabeth shook her head defiantly. What she saw was no childish imagination. She was nearly a grown up after all, even if the strange beast had frightened her. A middle-aged couple walked past, clucking their disapproval at her behaviour before whispering to each other as they continued down the corridor, occasionally looking back over their shoulders.

  “I will not be telling you this again, Elizabeth. Get up!” Nanny Catharina’s patience was wearing thin, and she spoke with slow deliberation, making her words cl
ear and concise, leaving Elizabeth in no doubt refusal would lead to further punishment.

  Elizabeth sat her ground, lips pursed, arms crossed.

  “You are leaving me with no choices.” Nanny Catharina’s hand fastened around the child’s upper arm, yanking her to her feet in one, well-practiced movement. Elizabeth’s scream was part in pain, as her shoulder snapped upwards, and part in childish frustration at not getting her own way. Nanny Kovac lifted Elizabeth’s arm so high she could barely keep her toes on the floor as she was propelled into the nearby cabin, whereupon Catharina Kovac slammed the door shut with a flick of her heel.

  Pandora remained perched on the pipe work running above F Deck’s main corridor for a few minutes, then, accepting her prey had escaped, scampered away through the maze of ducts and vents in search of another meal. Her need to kill, to feed, grew with every passing minute, unabated by each fresh kill.

  Thirty-two

  Catharina Kovac had worked in service since she was fourteen, and her natural way with children led her into the nursery. She had worked as a servant and assistant to the family’s nanny in two households before, only recently taking up her post as Elizabeth Robertson’s nanny. A position made more attractive by the family’s imminent immigration to America and the fact Miss Robertson was an only child; although, she thought that likely to change once Mr. and Mrs. Robertson were reunited. However, despite these two advantages, the position held one very obvious drawback, that of Elizabeth herself. Of all the children she had cared for, this precocious little bitch was by far the worst. Elizabeth acted like she was the lady of the manor, often ordering Catharina around like a servant. When Catharina didn’t comply, Elizabeth would throw a sulk, refusing to cooperate until, eventually, Mrs. Robertson would acquiesce to her demand, ordering Catharina to do the child’s bidding. This vastly undermined Catharina’s position in the house, making her duties almost impossible to carry out.

  Catharina didn’t care about the awkwardness of her position at that moment. She had arranged to take a well-earned bath, a luxury she secured soon after boarding because of the limited number of baths available to third class passengers. So, having dropped her unruly charge in the care of another nanny at a nearby cabin, she entered one of the two public bathrooms with her rolled up towel clutched under one arm.

  The bathroom was ostentatiously large but sparsely decorated with an oversized enamel bath set in its centre. Catharina locked the door behind her and approached the bath, dropping her towel on the solitary chair as she passed. She opened the hot tap, letting the water run across her fingers until it began to warm, before pushing the plug home and returning to the chair where she began to undress. She removed each article of clothing, carefully folding it before placing it on the chair, forming a small neat pile, her cotton and lace undergarments on the top. Naked, she stretched, arching her back until her shoulder muscles ached in a delightfully refreshing way, and then gently removed the pins holding her dark curls in place, allowing her hair to tumble loosely onto her shoulders. She shook it free as she padded across the tiled floor to check on the temperature of her bath water.

  This was her first free time since boarding, and she was determined to make the most of it. A warm bath followed by a spot of reading, but not Brontë’s romanticism; she liked a darker streak to inhibit her dreams. She had recently read Dracula and become obsessed with the notion of vampirism, and to this end had engrossed herself in Carmilla, seeing herself as the powerful and enigmatic stranger. She trailed her hand absentmindedly through the bathwater then, remembering the task at hand, turned off the hot tap before continuing to fill the bath with water from the cold tap.

  She waited for a few moments, allowing the cold water to mingle with the hot, her skin coming up in tiny goose bumps as the bathroom’s cold air tingled her naked flesh. Her nipples hardened as she imagined the cause of the breeze being Stoker’s handsome Count entering the room. Subconsciously, she tilted her head to the side, her eyes closed, her hair falling away to expose her delicate neck to her handsome visitor. Catharina felt his hands, strong yet gentle, momentarily caress her upper arms then one cupped her breast.

  A soft, frustrated sigh escaped her lips as she banished her darkly delicious thoughts of giving herself to a vampire. She lifted her leg ready to climb into her waiting bath.

  But the hand remained. The cold hand clamped to her breast, the strong fingers gouging into her sensitive skin and twisting the hard nub of her nipple causing her to catch her breath. Catharina’s eyes snapped open, her watery stare focused on her own exposed chest. This was no imagined interloper. A man’s hand, large and rough, the veins dark and bulging, twisted the pale mound of her right breast.

  Terrified, Catharina drew breath to scream. Ready to beg for her virtue and scream for help, but a second hand quickly clamped across her gaping mouth, stifling any sound, before wrenching her neck violently to the left.

  Catharina felt the fragile bones in her neck break with a soft crack, followed by the briefest moment of euphoric relief before death took her soul. Her lifeless body toppled into the bath’s warm water, her neck so hideously twisted her face stared back over her left shoulder, a thin trail of bubbles breaking the water’s surface as her final breath escaped her body.

  Thirty-three

  Bernard turned and paced the small cabin for the hundredth time. A brief smile flickered across his face as he remembered their meeting only four days previously. Until recently he had shared this cabin, and the greater adventure, with Patrick, the kid from Dublin, who was astute and quick-witted. He would have made an excellent accomplice in the new world. The facts surrounding his friend’s swift decline and subsequent death, and the doctor’s role in the mystery, troubled him. He knew something was going on, but what? He turned and paced in the opposite direction.

  Having returned to the cabin by way of one of the first class bars, whiskey was undoubtedly good for the nerves, Bernard spent most of the afternoon mulling over what little he knew. He concluded there was indeed something loose aboard the ship, something dangerous, and he needed to warn Kathleen about it. He was less sure whether this was out of some growing affection towards her as a woman or to protect his investment. Either way, he knew he had to be with her.

  Snatching his hat from the bunk, he hurried from the cabin. If he was quick enough, and chose his words carefully, as he didn’t want to appear too eager, he might persuade her to join him for a stroll, then perhaps dinner. His mind briefly considered a more base and carnal activity she could join him in after dinner, but he shook his head, dismissing the thought. She was too much of a lady to consider such a suggestion.

  He made his way through the second class corridors and slipped quickly through into the first class area. One of the ship’s officers nodded respectfully as they approached each other on the grand staircase.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Bernard,” Officer Moody said.

  “Good afternoon to you too, Mr. Moody. I trust everything is shipshape?” The two men laughed politely at Bernard’s feeble joke and continued their respected journeys. Although Bernard thought he noticed an uncomfortable twitch at the corner of Officer Moody’s right eye as they passed each other, he picked up the pace slightly, his desire to share his evening with the delightful Mrs. Black all the stronger. It was not until he reached the top of the stairs and turned into the plush corridor serving her suite that he realized he had not thought about her financial wealth for some time. He studied his reflection in one of the mirrors lining the walls, adjusting the clumsy knot of his tie, he said aloud, “Well dear boy, this is a new experience.” He removed some stray fluff from his shoulder then mumbled under his breath, “Just don’t fuck it up.”

  He strode confidently down the corridor and knocked sharply on the door of Kathleen Black’s suite. It opened immediately, a startled looking servant standing in the doorway.

  “Oh! Sorry, sir, you gave me quite a fright. Is Mistress Black expecting you?”

  “I don’t
believe her to be, but it would give me great comfort if she was,” Bernard said, clutching a hand to his heart.

  The chambermaid flashed a knowing smile and held the door open for Bernard to enter. “Madame has seemed happier of recent days, and I daresay there is a chance she might receive you.” She closed the door and ushered Bernard towards a small couch in the suite’s outer room, saying, “Please make yourself comfortable, and I will speak with Madame.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Matilda. Please fetch the tea and set an extra cup for Sir Bernard.” Kathleen’s voice shredded the hushed respectability of the room, her usual high-pitched nasal twang rising even higher in her ill-concealed excitement at seeing Bernard. She bustled across the room as Bernard rose to greet her, but instead of offering her hand as he expected she embraced him, pulling him in and holding his body tight against her bosom.

  “I do not feel the need to stand on pompous ceremony when we are alone. We are both too old to waste time dancing tactfully around the situation. I feel alive again in your presence, something I thought I had lost forever, and believe you feel the same about me. Let’s give ourselves a chance at happiness and not waste another second on stuffy formalities.”

  “Not that I’m opposed to this course of action,” Bernard replied, his face alight with joy. “But will it not sully your reputation so openly cavorting with another man so soon after your husband’s death?”

  Releasing Bernard from her tight embrace, she spoke with a mischievous sparkle in her eye, “I doubt very much that I have a reputation worth sullying, and as for cavorting? You need to hold your horses there awhile, Sir Bernard. I made no mention of cavorting, openly or otherwise.”

  Bernard laughed sheepishly as she took a seat next to him on the small couch, her body turned towards him so her knees pressed against his.