Tip of the Iceberg Page 19

  “Get off me, you fuckin’ bastard!” Esme screamed, her voice sounding loud inside her own head, taking her by surprise. Tears filled her eyes. She felt the needle prick pain as his tightening grip tore the hair from her scalp. She lashed out at his right shin with her left foot, but she kicked across her body, and although she made contact, it was weak and merely scuffed the edge of his calf instead of crunching against the sensitive bone. The swinging momentum of the kick toppled her off balance and she lost her footing. With a final violent twist of her hair, the decaying carcass of Doctor Sampson threw her against the filthy bed.

  Esme’s knees hit the unforgiving wooden floor with a jaw-jolting crack, her hips slamming into the bed’s metal frame, doubling her over so her face splashed into the fetid liquid fluid pooled in the hollow of the saturated mattress. For an agonizing few seconds, she could do nothing, stunned and winded by the force of her landing and blinded by a combination of her own tears and his foul-smelling excretions.

  Then she inhaled.

  The vile putrid soup filled her throat and stung the sensitive membranes in her nose. Esme raised her head in panic as the fluid pervaded her lungs. She coughed violently several times, then, as it swarmed back up into her throat, she gagged, adding a mouthful of vomit to the mess on the already ruined mattress. Frantically pulling at her now filthy apron, she wiped the glutinous mess from her face in time to see Doctor Sampson’s corpse standing over her, a lecherous leer playing on his cracked scabby lips as he tugged at his belt.

  Even in his state of walking decay, he seemed to remember the reason for her visit. As far as he was concerned, she had come to fulfill his sexual desire in exchange for him putting in a good word with the Old Dragon. It was one of his oldest and most successful ploys. He had never put in a good word for the young women he seduced this way. Miss Wilson’s demeanour terrified him and he rarely spoke to her, certainly nothing more than a polite acknowledgment. As for the young women, they were always too ashamed ever to mention their rendezvous with the doctor. Who would believe the wild accusations of a chambermaid over the word of such a learned gentleman and ship’s doctor?

  But now his corpse was simply acting on a thread of memory ingrained in its being, in the same way a gramophone plays a tune ingrained on a record. The doctor, in life, had spent so much of his existence preying on young girls, that in death the primary desire that drove his rotting flesh on was not that of food, but sex. But then, like a spider, he could always feast on her voluptuous young body afterward.

  The doctor’s trousers, free from the restraint of his belt, slid down his legs to crumple around his ankles. His legs were mottled in hues of green and blue, while his veins, prominent and black, spread branch-like through his vile, damp epidermis.

  The sight spurred Esme to life. Still spitting the foul mix of vomit, blood, and faecal matter from her mouth, she climbed to her feet, grabbing the keys from the nightstand with her left hand. Then, moving with a swiftness that surprised even herself, she reached down and seized a handful of the dead man’s bunched up trousers before pushing herself away, her legs driving her upwards as she tugged violently on the thick material.

  For one terrifying moment, she faltered. Her legs wobbled, her body threatening to sink back into the stinking mire on the mattress. She clutched the nightstand for support, the keys digging deep into the palm of her hand. Regaining her balance, Esme pitched her weight to the left yanking hard on the material twisted in her right hand, dragging the doctor’s rotund corpse off its feet. Doctor Sampson’s body crashed to the floor, his unprotected head striking the corner of his neat desk, whipping it to the side with the force of the impact.

  Briefly, Esme slumped to the floor, back against the bed, her loose hair tumbling across her face while the remains of her once pristine bun rested haphazardly against the nape of her neck. Her lungs prickled with every faltering breath. Her scalp stung with the intensity of a hundred bee stings and tiny rivulets of blood trickled from between the fingers of her hand still clenched tightly around the large bunch of keys. Doctor Sampson’s broken body lay a few feet away, his lifeless eyes staring, almost accusingly, in her direction while his limbs still twitched sporadically in a macabre death dance.

  Summoning all her remaining strength, Esme struggled to her feet. Lifting the bedside table high in the air, she brought it down with a sickening dull thud on the unprotected head of Doctor Sampson. Then she did it again and again until his skull completely caved in.

  It was only then Esme began to cry a gentle self-pitying sob as she looked in the small mirror above the sink, fixing her hair and wiping the sticky mess from her face with a clean towel. Satisfied she would at least pass a casual glance without drawing attention to herself, she carefully inched past the doctor’s crumpled body before quietly opening the cabin door.

  Stepping out into the corridor, Esme came face-to-face with the jealous corpse of Sister O’Malley.

  Forty-one

  Violet struggled to find a foothold in reality. She only occasionally dabbled with the opium flower, and then only to free her inhibitions when in William’s company. But over the last few days, restricted to the confines of her room, she had used it to excess, partly to relieve her boredom and partly to escape the reality of her existence. She was a rich man’s plaything, nothing more, and with the Graftons’ baby on the way, she understood that was unlikely to change. Even taking Mrs. Grafton out of the equation, she doubted William Grafton would debase himself so much to marry a housemaid, however skilled she was in the bedroom. She went out on deck hoping the brisk, refreshing sea air would unscramble the jumble of thoughts that tumbled through her mind with no coherent pattern or meaning, but to no use. The coldness of the evening served only to narrow her arteries, effectively forcing the drug into her brain, intensifying its effect.

  She stood at the rail on the first class promenade deck sucking in fresh, clean air and looking out across the dark expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Although dressed in an expensive evening gown, a thick fur shawl to keep away the chill, and a wide brimmed hat to conceal her features, she still felt displaced and vulnerable. This feeling was not helped by the knowledge that none of the clothes actually belonged to her. They were all Mrs. Grafton’s; Violet had borrowed them for the trip and would have to ensure she returned them to her mistress’s wardrobe when she arrived back in England. William had thoughtfully booked her a second class cabin for her return trip the following week, arranging for her to stay at a hotel during the interim. There was no doubt he would visit her during her stay so they could engage in the sexual activities his prim and proper wife would find abhorrent.

  William had not visited her as promised today, so she decided to defy his instruction for her not to leave the cabin. She would, of course, not be so stupid to go near his cabin for fear of running into Bridget, but if she exercised care, she could at least get to eat in the saloon. That would be a treat beyond words, but if William were there! She could only imagine the look of shock on his face as she boldly introduced herself.

  But what if he were dining with Bridget? She realized she had not thought of this most likely scenario. Then, a thought so wicked crossed her opium ravaged mind, and she started to laugh aloud. If her lover was dining with his wife, she would take a seat at a table behind Bridget so she could catch his eye. Violet would then leave immediately and wait for him in her cabin where he would be sure to show before the evening was out, no doubt aroused by excitement and anger.

  Buoyed by the expectation of an evening of delight, Violet pulled the shawl tight against the chill and strolled down the almost deserted promenade towards the entrance to the grand staircase. She would, for once, enter a dining room as a lady, dressed in all her finery and not skulk in as a servant to collect the dirty dishes.

  Bernard collected Kathleen from her cabin and, as promised, she had exchanged her dowdy black mourning dress for one in emerald green, which he thought, accentuated her ample curves in all the right places. He es
corted her to dinner, taking a short excursion out onto the covered walkway to show her the early evening sky’s canopy of twinkling stars. Long ago, Bernard had perfected the secret craft of romancing a lady and was going to ensure he used it to maximum effect on Kathleen. His cynical old heart, the heart of a trickster and charlatan, had never skipped so many beats as it did when he was with her. He convinced himself ... well almost, her vast fortune had nothing to do with what, to him at least, was a strange phenomenon.

  He found her to be attractive, witty, and surprisingly intelligent with a direct, flirtatious, and carefree attitude he found refreshing. She was like no one else he had ever met in the stuffy country houses attended by the inbred upper class of English society. He felt his determination not to let her slip through his fingers coursing through every fibre of his being, and he knew this could be his one true chance of happiness.

  Bernard escorted Kathleen down the grand staircase to the accompaniment of Brahms, expertly played on the piano in reception by a member of the ship’s orchestra. A young woman descended the stairs before them, and although well-dressed, Bernard noticed she didn’t carry herself in the way expected of a young lady. As she reached the bottom step, she hesitated and threw a nervous glance towards the saloon, as though having second thoughts about entering. He spent so long being someone else that he grew accustomed to spotting individuals who did not fit the picture they were trying to portray. He guessed, because she was dining alone, her gentleman friend was otherwise engaged this evening, probably with his wife.

  “Good evening,” his jovial greeting caught the young woman unawares. She swung round, a startled look on her face, but quickly regained her composure when seeing Bernard and Kathleen a few steps above her.

  “Good evening. Sir, madame.”

  “Good evening. That is a lovely dress; you must tell me where you bought it,” Kathleen gushed as she glided down the last few stairs. A look of terror filled the young woman’s eyes. When she decided to attend dinner, she obviously had not anticipated having to engage in conversation with other passengers.

  Seeing her fear, Kathleen came to her rescue, “It is such a daunting prospect, is it not, entering a restaurant on your own, especially one filled with so many pompous, old farts.”

  “I hope you’re not including me in that statement,” said Bernard with mock indignation.

  The young woman smiled nervously. “I must confess, I do feel somewhat out of my depth. Maybe it would be better if I dined in my room ...”

  “Nonsense!” Kathleen interrupted with a dismissive wave of her gloved hand. “You shall dine as our guest, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “No, sorry, that’s such a kind offer, but I couldn’t possibly impose.”

  “It will be no imposition, I can assure you. We would be glad of the company and any scandalous gossip you may have. Let me introduce ourselves, I’m Kathleen Black and this is Sir Bernard Astor.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Violet ... um ... Holmes,” replied Violet, clearly flustered at having to introduce herself.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Um Holmes. We’ll take a seat at a discreet table, and if you should see anyone whom you would prefer did not see you, then just keep your head down and stay close to us.” Bernard winked at Violet before striding over to the maître d’.

  Violet looked at Kathleen apologetically, “Is it that obvious?”

  Kathleen smiled, “Like a beacon, dear. Who is it you wish to avoid? Is it your master or your lover?”

  “They are one and the same,” confessed Violet, suddenly too ashamed to meet Kathleen’s eye. “And I don’t expect it’s considered good form to bump into his wife either.”

  “Oh ... extremely bad form indeed I would think,” laughed Kathleen as she took Violet by the arm, following in Bernard’s wake as a steward showed them to their table.

  Forty-two

  Guggenheim watched them from his table and briefly wondered whether the frightful Mrs. Black was actually fucking the phoney English knight. It seemed a fool and her husband’s money were easily parted. He smiled at the thought as he turned his attention to the wine list. He had left instructions with the maître d’ to invite Captain and Mrs. Grafton to join him for dinner. Not that he wanted to spend his evening with the insufferable William Grafton, but in the stuffy world of high society, Bridget was a breath of fresh air, and a beautiful one at that. Her intelligence and flirtatious nature obviously infuriated her pompous husband, but he found it engaging and exciting, making her exceptionally good company.

  After a few minutes, during which the saloon started filling up with smartly suited gentlemen and ladies dressed in the latest European fashions and sporting ostentatious items of jewellery, which had no purpose save for the open flaunting of wealth, Bridget entered the saloon alone. The maître d’, as directed, and lavishly tipped, escorted her through the bustling crowd to the billionaire’s secluded table.

  Rising politely from his chair, Guggenheim greeted Bridget with a smile. “I’m honoured you accepted my invitation to join me. Will Captain Grafton be joining us?” It was clear by his tone where his preferences lay.

  “I’m afraid he will not, Mr. Guggenheim. He is feeling a little under the weather so you have me all to yourself tonight,” Bridgett replied with a coy smile.

  “If you will excuse my boldness, it is a privilege to be entrusted with one so beautiful, Mrs. Grafton.” He wasn’t sure if she was deliberately flirting with him, but he was prepared to find out. He waited for Bridget to take her seat before retaking his.

  “I will excuse your boldness, Mr. Guggenheim, because you are American and therefore know no better.” Bridget spoke in her finest finishing school English, a haughty, almost dismissive expression set on her graceful features, the mere suggestion of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  “But, madam, do I need to remind you of your own heritage?”

  “No, you do not!” This time the American twang was very much evident in her accent. “That’s another reason I will excuse your boldness. I believe it is our boldness, as a nation, that sets us apart.” She fixed him with a firm stare, “It is also a fact that no woman on earth will demand an apology from a man for calling her beautiful.”

  Guggenheim now felt sure she was flirting with him. “Please pass on my best wishes to your husband. It is nothing serious I hope?” Even he thought his lie obvious.

  Bridget fidgeted in her seat and looked about the saloon nervously before answering, her mind replaying those moments when she rode his chest, forcing the pillow across his face. “No, just something he couldn’t get off his chest. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  Bridget fell quiet as the wine steward appeared; Guggenheim ordered champagne, then studied his guest in silence for a short while. She appeared, at least to him, to have something on her mind and yet, by the same token, to be freer in her words and attitudes than at any other time he had seen her on the voyage. He could only surmise it had something to do with her husband, but he wasn’t one to pry. Perhaps they had argued and in a childish spat, William refused to join her for dinner. If that were so, it was his loss.

  The waiter returned with the champagne, which he uncorked with an expert hand, catching the cork before it sailed across the room. He poured the sparkling liquid first into Guggenheim’s flute glass then, on Guggenheim’s nod, into Bridget’s. They looked at each other in silence, Guggenheim waiting for the waiter to leave before speaking.

  “It’s with regret that I have to announce I will not have you to myself. I have also invited Captain Smith, Bruce Ismay, and Thomas Andrews to join me, as I’m fascinated by this impressive vessel and her abilities. I’m afraid Madame Aubart does not share my fascination and chose to dine in her room this evening.”

  “What more could a lady want than to have four men of such importance all to herself. I’m sure I will be able to more than make up for Madame Aubart’s absence.”

  Bridget deliberately left the sentence hangi
ng in the air between them. If Esme’s plan was to work, Bridget would need the testimony of Benjamin Guggenheim and a little flirting would certainly ensure he remembered their time together. And if she needed to go further then, with her life and her husband’s wealth at stake, she would.

  “Ah, I believe my other guests have arrived.” Guggenheim’s attention switched to the saloon’s entrance. Bridget took a moment to check the positioning of her hat and that her hair was in place before the other men arrived. Then she took a generous swig of champagne to settle her skittish nerves.

  For a brief moment, she thought about Esme and wondered how she was getting on with her attempts at securing a key to the gates separating steerage from the rest of the ship. Then Guggenheim’s guests arrived and she spread a smile across her face and plunged into the role of a doting wife.

  Forty-three

  Sister O’Malley stood swaying gently in the corridor, blocking Esme’s escape from the dead doctor’s cabin. If she was surprised to see Esme leaving Doctor Sampson’s cabin, her decaying features didn’t show it. Her mottled skin looked bloated with a road map of blackened veins spreading across her face, branching out from the thick tracks on her neck. Her lips, and the tongue bulging out from behind them, were purple, and their once delicate surfaces dry and cracked with several dark, weeping sores. Thick, green mucus dribbled from her lips to land on her chest with a soft plop.

  Esme recoiled in shock. Covering her mouth and nose with her hand, she tried to block out the reeking stench of rotting, putrid meat accompanying the nurse, to no avail. Esme gagged, her stomach knotting and twisting as it forced the warm, acidic bile up into her throat and propelled it out through her nose and mouth. It burned the sensitive membranes in her nostrils, blurring her vision as salty tears welled in the corners of her eyes.