Tip of the Iceberg Read online

  Davis assumed them stolen; after all, dead bodies did not just walk off on their own accord. What puzzled him was, why? Why would someone want to steal one body, let alone two? And how, on God’s earth, were they planning to smuggle the bodies ashore in New York?

  He was still pondering this question as he followed Baines through the swing doors out onto the dimly lit poolside. His more senior colleague stopped abruptly just inside the doorway causing Davis to bump into him with a soft sigh of annoyance.

  “What the ...?” He exclaimed, pushing himself away from Baines before they tripped over one another’s legs in the gloom.

  “S ... Sir?” Baines called over his shoulder, his usual unflappable calmness dispelled, replaced by a palpable fear and apprehension, causing the word to come out as a faltering whisper.

  Davis stepped to the side to allow Officer Moody to follow them through the door, at the same time catching his first look at the reason for Baines’ reticence. Lying before them, wearing only a dark coloured bathing suit, was what he assumed to be the body of the missing passenger. Identifying that to be the case would take a while, as the dead man’s torso ended in a bloody, ragged stump where his head should have sat.

  In that moment, Davis couldn’t see the missing head. He stood transfixed by the hideously grotesque neck stump, unable to tear his eyes away from it until, with barely a sound, he doubled over and vomited. He took a few deep breaths then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before straightening up. He glanced at Baines, who had remained silent, unsure his friend had even noticed the warm, sticky puke that spewed from his gullet.

  Moody came around from behind the two men and stood beside them. Davis watched the officer’s normally ruddy complexion turn deathly pale as, in a shocking moment of comprehension, he took in the scene before him. He heard the quiet intake of breath as the young officer struggled to control his emotions, the long sigh as he cleared his lungs, his cheeks puffing as the air forced its way out through pursed lips. Finally, almost inaudible to his two subordinates, he muttered, “Who the fuck can do that to another human being?”

  It was not clear whether Moody’s question was rhetorical or if he wanted an answer. It didn’t really matter, as neither man had one.

  There was a long moment of silence, during which time the three men looked from one to another, an unspoken pact forming between them. They were witnessing, firsthand, the brutality of this beast, and the fear gripping their souls and twisting their guts was written clear in their eyes. It was a brutality no one would believe unless they, too, witnessed the beast’s handiwork, and a fear only understood by those who thought the beast was coming for them. A fear that chilled even the most hardened mariners to the core. A fear they wished never to disclose to another living soul for fear of ridicule.

  Finally, Baines spoke, his voice creaking as he struggled to keep his emotions under control. “I think there may be another body in there.” He raised a shaky hand to point towards the shadows at the far end of the pool where the darker outline of a human form floated face down, arms akimbo. A dark, cloudy circle had formed around the body which was, ever so slowly, spreading outwards.

  Davis wretched again, his stomach empty.

  Moody took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do for him to hurl his guts in front of the two crewmen; this was a time for strong stomachs and stronger leadership. Whatever was loose on board the ship had now killed at least five men in, if the headless corps was anything to go by, the most barbaric of circumstances.

  “Mr. Baines, would you please fish that body out of the water?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The sailor’s response was barely audible as he unhooked a long-handled boat hook from the wall. Standing at the edge of the pool, he extended the hook out across the water. On the second try, he latched into the floating corpse’s bloated flesh, towing him gently towards the poolside. Once the body bumped softly against the pool’s tiled wall, he extracted the hook from the skin with a deft flick of his wrist, before kneeling down to haul the water-laden body from the pool.

  Davis, who watched the proceedings with a gaunt, pale expression, his hand clasped firmly over his mouth, finally hurried forward to aid his colleague. Moody stood a few yards away, supervising the men’s efforts. Although it was a concern he didn’t dare voice aloud, he wanted to keep watch in case the killer returned or, worse still, was lurking close by awaiting his chance to kill again.

  Davis was still a few slippery yards from Baines when the previously thought deceased reared up from the pools murky water, his insides tumbling from a huge cavity torn through his abdomen. Several yards of sloppy entrails floated in the dirty water beneath him as his fat, fleshy fingers tore at Baines’ throat before he found the purchase he was after. Gripping the able seaman firmly, the man from the pool pulled him down so their faces were only inches apart.

  Baines gurgled what might have been a terrified scream had not the corpse had such a firm hold of his larynx. Perplexed by the speed of the attack, Moody and Davis remained rooted where they stood, frozen with fear. The dead man bared his teeth in what Moody briefly thought a macabre grin, before biting deep into Baines’ unprotected face, ripping his nose away with the first frenzied bite. The pair toppled into the water, the deceased spinning his victim so he dragged him under the water in one smooth motion, his gnashing teeth closing in on Baines’ neck as they disappeared into the foaming darkness.

  Davis stared down into the churning water as his shipmate fought for his life. His attacker was clearly dead. If he lived to be a hundred, Davis knew he would never forget that grinning face.

  But the attacker was clearly dead. Floating face down, his innards trailing in the water, the man was clearly dead. Wracked with indecision and confused by the speed of events in the last few seconds, Davis didn’t know whether to go to Baines’ aid or run for his life.

  Moody was first to react. Grabbing the young seaman by the collar, he dragged him away from the water’s edge. “Fuckin’ move, Davis! Come on!” he screamed hysterically as he continued to half carry, half drag the man towards the changing rooms.

  “What ’bout Baines? We can’t just leave ’im,” Davis mumbled, his face pale and bloodless.

  “You saw what he ... that thing did to the other one. Baines is already dead, and we’ll join ’im if we don’t move!” Moody did not break stride as he propelled Davis through the door. The two sailors almost tumbled as they ran through the tight changing room before recovering their balance to stumble past the office door before crashing out into the corridor.

  Davis was breathing heavily, bent over, hands on knees, “What in the name of God was that because it certainly wasn’t right! You saw ’im, he was fuckin’ dead, ’is guts was floating in the pool.”

  “Quiet, Davis. The captain was specific about the surreptitious nature of this investigation. I doubt he will take kindly to you running your mouth so publicly,” Moody hissed, pulling the door closed.

  “Pardon me, sir, but if you still think you can keep this quiet, you’re a bigger fool than he.” Moody noticed the able seaman was shaking as he spoke, the full horror of what he had just witnessed finally sinking in and sending him into shock. Moody slapped Davis on the shoulder in what he hoped was a confident and encouraging manner, although he too was aware of the futility of their situation. Piecing together the information from the captain’s briefing, coupled with the events of the last few minutes, he reluctantly concluded that, in some extraordinary way, the dead themselves were responsible for the killings. If that were true, the number of killers was only going to rise and the ship, as vast as she was, was only so big, and at least two days at full steam from any port.

  “Listen to me, sailor. The last thing we need now is pandemonium. If word of these killings gets out, then confusion and chaos will reign, and that will result in many more deaths. Do you understand me?” Moody deliberately kept his voice low and casual. He needed Davis to be with him, and right now, the poor man was holding on by his
fingertips.

  Davis took a deep breath, flashing a hesitant smile in Moody’s direction, he nodded.

  “Sir!” The loud address in an American accent came from the far end of the short transverse corridor in which they stood. Moody looked up to see able seaman Callahan walking swiftly towards him.

  “Mr. Callahan, it would be lax of me not to mention how glad I am to see you.”

  Callahan made no effort to return the officer’s attempted good-humoured greeting. Instead, and with some degree of urgency noticeable in his voice, he said, “The master-at-arms asks for your immediate help in steerage, sir. There has been an incident.”

  “An incident?” questioned Moody. “What do you mean by incident?”

  “The first search party was attacked, sir.” Callahan gave Moody a confused look, before adding, “By the dead, sir.”

  Forty

  Esme arrived outside Sampson’s private cabin just after the shrill, brass tones of the ship’s bugle had called the first class passengers to the 19:30 dinner service. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her face as she felt the telltale tingle of embarrassment flush through her cheeks. She took a deep breath and dabbed her brow with her handkerchief before running her hands down her dress, smoothing out the creases.

  She wanted to turn and walk away. More than anything else in the world she wanted to forget all about Doctor Sampson and his disgusting proposition, but the die was cast and events already set in motion. Both her return to Southampton to her sister, Charlotte, and the future liberty of Mrs. Grafton depended on her actions in the next hour or so.

  She tapped the door gently with the knuckle of her forefinger and waited.

  There was no reply, although she thought she heard a muffled movement from within the cabin. Feeling exposed and self-conscious, she knocked again. This time, driven by urgency, her knock was louder and more confident. She knew if she didn’t do this now she never would, and she didn’t want her visit to become common knowledge. The doctor had a well-known reputation, and should she be seen calling on him it would not tax people’s imagination about why. She could do without the sniggering whispers of the other maids and didn’t want to give the insufferable Miss Wilson any more ammunition. The cow already believed her a whore and would, no doubt, enjoy throwing her unceremoniously off the ship in New York.

  She listened intently for a moment and was just about to turn on her heel and scarper back to the relative safety of the ship’s galley when she heard the doctor mumbling. She couldn’t make out the exact wording of his reply, possibly because of the thickness of the door, but she got the general drift. Esme placed her hand on the door and gave it a push, hastily stepping into the cabin beyond before swinging the door shut behind her.

  Doctor Sampson lay on his bunk in a pair of scruffy trousers and a filthy shirt, open to reveal an equally grubby vest stretched tight over his barrel-like stomach. The cabin itself stank, an unpleasant mix of manly sweat and something not unlike rotting meat, causing Esme to balk at venturing further into the dimly lit room. She remained by the door, appalled by the doctor’s unkempt appearance and repulsed by the air’s foul odour. Surely, he could have had the good grace to remain sober.

  She reserved her feelings of abhorrent disgust for herself. Even in her darkest musings about this moment, he remained a gentleman of breeding, polite and well-mannered; he at least kept up the pretence of seduction. But in reality, and away from prying eyes, he was a vile slob who’d preyed on her vulnerability.

  On seeing her, the doctor groaned loudly and tried to get up from the bed. He flailed his arms and legs like a stranded beetle as he tried to gather enough strength to roll over, before finally flipping himself off the bed where, momentarily confused, he remained face down.

  Esme slid her hand behind her, feeling for the reassuring hardness of the doorknob which she gripped with relief. She couldn’t do it. Whatever Miss Wilson did to her would never be as bad as letting this loathsome man touch her. She would find another way back to her sister, and she and Bridget would have to think of another plan, one that didn’t involve the contents of the doctor’s trousers.

  Then she saw them!

  They were sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. The doctor’s heavy looking bunch of keys, which would include the key that unlocked the gates dividing steerage from the first class areas of the vessel. The key would allow Bridget, dressed in Esme’s clothes, to disappear into the masses huddled in steerage. Once they reached port she could safely reappear claiming she had feared for her life after discovering her loving husband’s murdered body. Meanwhile, Esme would find his mistress Violet and lure her on deck with the promise of a moonlight tryst with Captain Grafton. Once there, she would push the adulteress overboard before leaving a hastily written, tear-stained confession and suicide note in Violet’s cabin.

  Esme would then raise the alarm, claiming she saw Bridget jump overboard. The delay in raising the alarm would allow the sea to claim Violet’s body and a search of the cabins would not find Bridget Grafton, leaving the crew to believe Esme’s deliberately vague identification.

  On the discovery of Violet’s note, it would be assumed she killed Captain Grafton in a fit of passion before taking her own life, leaving Bridget to emerge as a grieving widow, who fearing for her life, took refuge among the immigrants. The discovery of her husband’s adultery with their servant, while obviously scandalous and shocking, would pale against the revelation she was pregnant with her dead husband’s first child, and heir to his considerable fortune. Esme hoped this would garner public sympathy, and coupled with the confusion surrounding William’s death and the role Violet played in it, would completely exonerate Bridget.

  She had it all planned. No court in England would convict a lady of such good stock, with no tangible evidence and so much reasonable doubt. Chambermaid confessed! Lady Grafton feared for her life! The headlines almost wrote themselves.

  She needed that key, but the grossly bloated and foul smelling lump of lard that masqueraded as the ship’s physician stood in her way. Doctor Sampson, his back to Esme, climbed unsteadily to his feet using the furniture to support his considerable frame, while he groaned and moaned with the exertion.

  Disgusted, Esme looked at the bed, a small hollow in the mattress still noticeable where he’d lain, and almost gagged. She clamped her hand across her mouth as her stomach lurched. The mattress and sheet were both heavily stained with what she immediately thought to be a foul mixture of blood and faecal matter. The bottom of the hollow had filled with a thick, sticky reddish-brown liquid, and it was from this the cabin’s putrefying smell emanated. Several flies were flitting around the tiny pool, occasionally alighting on its surface before darting away.

  Esme began frantically fumbling with the doorknob behind her. All thoughts of the key, of the plan, banished from her mind. All she could think of was getting out of there. Something was terribly wrong, but in the confusion, her mind couldn’t piece it together. Her hands shook, the palms so damp with a nervous sweat she couldn’t get sufficient grip on the smooth brass to twist it far enough to free the latch from its retaining plate.

  Doctor Sampson turned towards her. It was then she recognized the true horror of her circumstance. His deathly pale face, round and podgy at the best of times, was engorged, the skin pulled taught. Droplets of yellowish fluid seeped from the open pores, an intricate web of darkness creeping across his features. His mouth gapped open with the bulbous, green lump of flesh that must have once been his tongue lolling from the open cavity, the tip of this oral appendage had turned black and necrotic. Esme, who’d seen plenty of injured seamen with badly treated wounds, recognized the onset of gangrene; although, she’d never seen it develop at such a rapid pace.

  But what really induced the cold, vice-like hands of fear to grip her heart, draining the blood from her face and almost causing her to urinate where she stood, were the doctor’s eyes. Where they were once filled with mischief, dancing and twinkling whenever he s
poke, they were now just dark sunken hollows housing eyes as black as coals, the vibrancy of life drained from them to leave the ill-defined stare of death.

  Esme had no doubts the doctor was dead, and yet, unless her eyes were playing the cruellest of tricks, he was standing, although a little unsteadily, in front of her. His soulless eyes gazed languidly through her and yet somehow still regarded her with the utmost scrutiny.

  She realized with a sickening jolt that her frantic attempts to open the door had ceased. Crippled with fear, her wide-eyed stare focused on Doctor Sampson’s hideously marked face.

  He shuffled closer. His monstrous mouth twisting into a chilling leer, as if he’d remembered the purpose of her visit. Esme watched his approach. She felt her skin tighten as though a thousand tiny spiders had crawled across its pale surface; a cold sweat chilled her forehead and wetted her back.

  She inhaled, almost gagging on the putrid smell of decay, and forced her legs to move. Edging to her left, using her outstretched hand to guide her, not daring to tear her eyes away from the dead man lurching towards her, she encountered a solid barrier. Furniture, a chest of drawers, she guessed.

  Sampson’s leering face loomed closer. His hands, swollen and yellowing, the fingers blackening at the tips, reached towards her. She ducked, scrabbling under his raised arm, trying to get to the other side of the heavy furniture hoping to use it as a defensive barrier within the tight confines of the well-organized cabin.

  As she straightened, her forward motion stopped and she toppled backward. Twisting her body, she managed to stay on her feet, but her scalp blazed with a burning pain as the doctor, his strong fingers entwined in her hair, pulled her back. She beat at his arms with her fists, each blow preceded by a wild windmilling of her arms as she desperately tried to break his hold.

  But it was no use. He dragged her forcibly towards the bed.