Tip of the Iceberg Read online

  Patrick weaved his way through the crowds of well-wishers, street sellers, and passengers saying emotional farewells, and walked purposefully towards the White Star Line’s purpose-built passenger terminal. As he walked, his eyes scanned the faces around him, searching for any sign the police were on to him. He presented his second class ticket at the gate and began climbing the stairway up to one of the Titanic’s gangplanks and his new life in America.

  Patrick sensed the mounting excitement; the warm sunshine that bathed the quay below added to the crowd’s general good humour and made the cheerfully coloured bunting appear more vivid. He took a deep breath and smelt the usual mix of tar and sea salt mingling with the strong scent of the freshly caught fish being hawked around the quayside for a ha’penny. Pausing for a moment to look down on the crowds below, Patrick absorbed the atmosphere and was struck by the enormity of the moment. He was leaving England’s green fields the way his grandfather left the Emerald Isle: on a promise of a better life, and to evade the police.

  Patrick quickly checked the clasp on Pandora’s valise then walked confidently across the gangplank, nodding a friendly greeting to the officer who stood welcoming the second and third class passengers aboard. All the while, Patrick waited for Pandora to screech or become restless, giving her presence away.

  His legs turned to jelly, and his heart threatened to jump up through his mouth as he stepped off the gangplank and onto the ship’s spotless deck. He exchanged hasty pleasantries with the burly master-at-arms, the palms of his hands feeling damp and sweaty as he awaited his illicit luggage’s inevitable discovery and their resulting removal from the vessel.

  But it never came. Instead, he found himself directed to a stairwell with further directions to his second class cabin. As he hurried away from the welcoming committee, his battered suitcase in one hand and the tatty valise wedged firmly under his arm, Patrick’s smile got broader with every step.

  Patrick McGowan and his unusual traveling companion were on their way to America.

  Esme’s first three hours as a White Star employee aboard the Titanic were a whirlwind of frenetic activity. She’d exchanged several tearful hugs with Charlotte before walking across the crew member’s gangplank into the bowels of the ship a minute or so after her allotted time. Once inside, she was met by a stern-faced woman who, although probably in her late fifties, had the wrinkled skin tone of a woman far older. She wore her hair pulled into a tight bun, with not a single gray strand daring to step out of line. She introduced herself as the head housekeeper, Miss Wilson, while looking down her pointed nose at Esme, her frosty expression falling somewhere between disapproval and outright contempt.

  After what seemed like an age, Miss Wilson nodded, seemingly satisfied that Esme passed muster. “Here are your cabin details. You will find your uniform there. Please change and report to the first class dining saloon by eight thirty, sharp.” She snapped impatiently before striding away. A second, younger woman thrust a sheet of paper into Esme’s hand before scurrying off after Miss Wilson, leaving Esme to find her own way to her cabin.

  If Esme had been expecting luxury accommodation, then her expectations were about to take a battering. At first, she walked the length of the narrow corridor mistaking her cabin for a broom cupboard and then, upon entering, discovered she shared the broom cupboard with another maid. A haphazard pile of clothes lay across the top bunk, and a pair of boots lay discarded on the floor. There was no sign of the woman herself, and Esme flung her small suitcase onto the lower bunk before hastily changing into the uniform neatly folded at its foot.

  Esme finally ran into the lavish Dining Saloon on D Deck a little over ten minutes late, breathing heavily. A stone-faced Miss Wilson stood on the Grand staircase’s second step; arms behind her back. She glared at Esme who started to mumble an apology, then seeing the rising anger in the older woman’s wrinkled face and realising she was only making matters worse, stopped herself. She quietly joined the other housekeepers assembled at the foot of the stairs and was secretly relieved when two minutes later, another three women rushed in to join the group.

  “Now that you are all finally ready, albeit sixteen minutes late, I would like to formerly welcome you to the crew of RMS Titanic and inform you of our expectations.” Miss Wilson then droned on for the next half an hour frequently mentioning words like, ‘tardy, punctuality’ and ‘fraternisation’, but Esme found it hard to concentrate, her thoughts drifting back to the events of the previous evening. If finding a dead body hadn’t been strange enough, the events that followed were so curious and gave her such a fright; it left her with an unnatural chill that still flowed through her veins.

  Once she had ordered the children away, she quickly checked the body and found it to be very definitely dead. A fact she felt sure of due to the stench of death lingering around the corpse. Then she and Charlotte took the younger children home before stopping at the Belvedere Arms to ask a few regulars to escort them back to the body’s resting place. However, when they arrived back on the waste ground, the body had vanished, leaving a pile of discarded rags to mark its earlier location. The men from the pub had been sceptical of her story; after all, dead men didn’t just get up and walk away. They pointed out with some hilarity that maybe she’d supped a little too much Mother’s Ruin, but did, after some persuasion, agree to search the immediate area; although, Esme suspected they were only humouring her. They trampled around for a few minutes before succumbing to the lure of the distant hostelry, but it was long enough to prove there was no dead body in the vicinity. A fact Esme found worrying, leading her to conclude either a deranged killer or a firm of body snatchers were at work in Southampton.

  Esme knew she had seen a dead body. There was no trick of the light, no drunken hallucination, just a dead man lying in a bundle of old rags. She would never forget his face, what with those strange markings and the smell; the vile smell of rotting meat left in the summer sun. She supposed the dead man had died some time ago, but if that were the case, why were his remains not discovered before? The waste ground was a regular playground for the children and a busy shortcut home from the docks. Surely, if the body had been there long enough to rot, then someone would have discovered it earlier, unless the children disturbed the killer during the act of disposing of the body. Maybe the killer lurked in the shadows while she and Charlotte took the children away, before swooping in to reclaim the body. She remembered her father telling her stories of Jack the Ripper and how he just slipped away. What if he had escaped abroad but now had returned to Southampton aboard a liner, free to kill again?

  For a brief moment, her thoughts turned to Charlotte, and she uttered a silent prayer for her safety.

  “Miss Jackson!” The sound of someone shouting her name with such venom roused her from her thoughts. She looked up in time to see the head housekeeper steaming towards her. Miss Wilson’s palm sounded like a whip cracking as it connected with Esme’s cheek, snapping her head to the side. For a split-second, Esme thought Miss Wilson had missed. Then the pain surged across her face leaving a stinging sensation that brought tears to her eyes.

  Through the ringing in her ear, Esme heard Miss Wilson’s muffled voice, “How dare you daydream when I am talking to you, you insolent little girl! We should have left you in the gutter where you belong.”

  Esme lifted her head and stared defiantly back into Miss Wilson’s baggy, bloodshot eyes. She could see the fury and hatred burning deep within the woman’s soul. It was more than just Esme’s idle daydreaming fuelling the rage. There was resentment etched in the woman’s face along with a lifetime of regrets, a deep desire for retribution, and maybe even a little bit of jealousy simmering below the surface. All of it waiting for that one spark that would send her emotions into a bubbling turmoil, hurling the demure Miss Wilson into a raging frenzy bordering on insanity.

  A smirk twitched at the corners of Esme’s mouth. She had the very things this sanctimonious old bitch craved the most: youth, beauty, vitality,
and opportunity. At that moment, as the other chambermaids looked on in hushed awe and Miss Wilson turned an interesting shade of apoplectic purple, Esme believed she had the whole world at her feet.

  Miss Wilson was at a loss for words. She opened and closed her mouth several times before uttering, “Well I never ...!” before turning on her heels and storming off towards the kitchen.

  Goaded by the presence of the other women, and despite the pain still stinging her left cheek, Esme muttered, just loud enough for the assembled chambermaids to hear, “No, I don’t suppose you ever did.”

  Several of the young women looked shocked, a few sniggered quietly. The woman, who’d earlier directed Esme to her cabin, now handed her another sheet of paper. She tried to hide her smile as she spoke “You are to help with housekeeping duties in first class.” Lowering her voice to a whisper, she added quickly, “If you want to be on the return trip, I suggest you stay well clear of the Old Dragon.” Then she was gone, hurrying after Miss Wilson, every inch the loyal assistant.

  Esme checked her assignment before handing the list to a nervous looking girl of about fifteen standing next to her. Esme gave the young girl a brief, reassuring smile, before climbing the Grand staircase in search of the first class Staterooms on A Deck where she was expected to welcome the passengers aboard with champagne, before assisting them with their unpacking.

  Six

  Captain William Grafton had decided he and his wife should walk the short distance from the hotel to the White Star Pier because it was “the British thing to do.” He also secretly hoped the pleasant stroll would help digest the large breakfast he had devoured. After he finished his large breakfast, Captain Grafton ordered a second helping of bacon and a third of toast, which caused the already generous cut of his suit to feel uncomfortably tight. Casually, he ran his thumb around the waistband of his trousers just below his decidedly middle-aged belly, hoping to relieve the tightness of the waistband.

  Captain Grafton waited in the hotel’s plush reception area for Bridget, who had ordered her lighter breakfast be sent to their room once she had bathed. In all his adult life, he had never been a man expected to wait. During his lifetime, people rushed to do his bidding, but having to wait on Bridget to finish her bath, dress, and have breakfast made him feel self-conscious sitting alone in the plush reception area. He made a mental note to speak to Bridget about her timekeeping, but that would have to wait until they were alone. Some things between a husband and wife were best resolved in private where the master of the house could wield his power, unhindered by moral indignation.

  Bridget finally walked into the reception area, having kept William waiting for almost an hour. He glanced at his pocket watch, noting it was well past eleven o’clock. Bridget stopped to thank a few members of the hotel staff, another trait he found annoying. William hated the direction in which Edwardian society was heading. As he waited for Bridget to make her way towards him, he thought to himself that it was these people’s place to serve the upper classes, and they did not need fawning over. He was firmly of the belief young women had become far too opinionated with a tendency to be overly friendly with servants, and American women, in particular, were especially guilty of this.

  William stood and coughed politely, signalling for his wife to join him. She walked towards him with a broad smile. He suppressed his anger and forced a smile in return before offering his young wife his arm. Together they walked out of the hotel; his grip on her forearm so tight she whimpered in pain.

  Politely, through a false smile, William mumbled, “We need to hurry my darling otherwise we shall be late. I am sure White Star will not delay the ship’s departure, even for us.”

  Bridget felt her arm going numb below the pinching grip of William’s strong fingers. She nodded in agreement. “I’m sure you are quite right, my dear. It was remiss of me to dally so long while dressing. I shall endeavour to be quicker in the future.”

  William eased his grip, content he’d successfully made his point, and began marching down the road at a brisk military pace, which Bridget found hard to match. A few scruffy sailors, intent on getting one last drink before joining their ship, stumbled across their path. William smelt the beer oozing from their pores as they staggered out of his way, raising their caps in an exaggerated, drunken apology. One fixed Bridget with a leering smile which lasted too long for William’s liking, and he quickened his pace. He knew Bridget was a beautiful woman; he could see that for himself, and the polite attention she got from his gentlemen friends flattered him, but he didn’t appreciate some lower-class plebe openly lusting after her. If he had his way, the impudent imbecile would be beaten to within an inch of his miserable life, but again, the fine structures of Victorian society were gradually eroding away as the twentieth century gathered pace.

  William settled for simply flashing a warning glare at the sailor who stumbled away, leaving William to almost drag Bridget across the road. He hissed menacingly at her to “Hurry up,” then added sarcastically “or would you prefer spending your time entertaining sailors for a penny a go?”

  Bridget blushed, shocked at her husband’s suggestion and embarrassed by his behaviour, but most of all, she felt scared. William had changed almost as soon as the doors closed behind their last wedding guest. She mumbled another well-rehearsed apology; she was fast learning the privileged position of Mrs. William Grafton came with a heavy burden. As she hurried along behind her husband, she kept her eyes fixed demurely on the path in front of her, anxious not to draw unwanted attention and risk another of William’s little lessons in discipline.

  William believed he did it for her own good, and she needed to understand that. It was important for a wife to support her husband, to look pretty and be entertaining without making him the object of ridicule. He was teaching her to be a better wife, a better person. She was lucky he understood she was young, and he was prepared to allow for that. She didn’t deserve such a patient and understanding husband, but it still hurt when he disciplined her.

  Bridget didn’t lift her gaze from the port’s cobbled street until William led her into the White Star Line’s large reception building. As he presented their tickets and completed the formalities, she gazed out through the tall windows at the vessel towering above them. Even she couldn’t help feeling a shiver of excitement and expectation running up her spine. This was going to be something to tell her unborn child about. Subconsciously, she rubbed her belly, her thought momentarily drifting to idyllic dreams of motherhood.

  “Are you alright, my darling?” She hadn’t noticed William approaching, a look of concern etched on his face. Bridget knew it was only for the benefit of the other passengers waiting to board. He was never this attentive when they were alone.

  “I’m perfectly fine, thank you. Why do you ask?” Bridget smiled sweetly at her husband, playing along with his little act. She looked into his eyes, searching for any hint that he knew about her little secret: about her precious, unborn child.

  “Well, my dear, you drifted off to another world, and you have rubbed your stomach several times since leaving the hotel.” Then smiling at two elderly ladies seated on a bench close by, he added, “And, as your husband, I am naturally worried.”

  “Oh! I believe I may have eaten breakfast with too much haste, and I now have some trapped gas. Just like the Mona Lisa, my expression was enigmatic as opposed to distant as you implied.” A White Star employee arrived and ushered them towards the gangplank. Bridget added in the brashest American accent she could manage, and just loud enough for the two elderly ladies to overhear as she walked away, “Nothing a good fart won’t cure.”

  The two ladies’ jaws dropped open in shock, one even went as far as placing her hands over her ears in case the uncouth American woman should continue her crass observation. William turned the colour of pickled beetroot as he tried to apologise for his wife’s comment before hurrying to catch up with her before she could embarrass him further. Bridget kept walking without so much
as a backward glance at either of the two outraged women or William, who firmly grasped her arm as she stepped onto the gangplank. She knew he would take his revenge the moment they were alone but now, deep inside, she danced a waltz. She spun around and around in a giant ballroom celebrating her little victory, every turn getting faster and faster as her mysterious partner guided her around the floor.

  As they stepped onto the ship’s deck, one of the ship’s officers welcomed them aboard before introducing them to the chambermaid who would show them to their cabin. Bridget noticed the chambermaid was a similar age to her with well-defined features and piercing green eyes hinting at wisdom far beyond her age. The left side of her face appeared slightly reddened, and her eyes looked puffy as if she had cried recently, but she smiled politely as she introduced herself as Esme before requesting they follow her to their Stateroom on A Deck.

  As Bridget followed Esme along the wood paneled corridor with her obviously still furious husband bringing up the rear, Bridget felt like a condemned woman being led to the gallows thinking so much for the romantic fairy tale of marriage to a dashing army officer. If this was her honeymoon, she wondered what the rest of her life would be like. Would William continue to dole out punishments and discipline or would she, in time, learn to be the perfect, submissive wife he obviously wanted?

  Seven

  Patrick had just finished the unfortunately short task of unpacking all his worldly possessions in the cramped second class cabin and was pushing Pandora’s valise into the storage space below the wooden bench when the cabin door swung open. A large man dressed in a brown tweed suit almost fell into the cabin, his feet tripping on the doorway’s raised lip. Belatedly, he grabbed the iron framed bunk, taking on the comic appearance of a music hall mime artist as he swung helplessly from the framework, his feet skidding across the floor as he struggled to pull himself upright. Once he regained his balance, he calmly returned to the doorway to collect his baggage, dragging it into the cabin before slamming the door shut with his foot.