Tip of the Iceberg Read online

  Standing in the centre of the cabin, the intruder finally acknowledged Patrick’s presence with a mock theatrical bow. “That, dear boy was not the grand entrance I planned, but no doubt more memorable.” The man’s speech was slow, deliberate, his tone deep, the aristocratic accent a little too polished with the words rumbling out from under the bushiest walrus moustache Patrick had ever seen. The man’s pale blue eyes were so deep set they appeared to be peeking out over his ruddy cheeks, and atop his head, he sported a slightly frayed deerstalker, which, presumably due to his dramatic entrance, sat at a comically, rakish angle.

  Patrick stared at the man in astonishment for a heartbeat longer than necessary before erupting with laughter. The man, old enough to be Patrick’s father, stared back in disbelief for a brief moment before he too started to chuckle.

  “Aye, it was memorable,” said Patrick, still laughing as he held out his hand to introduce himself. “McGowan. Patrick McGowan.”

  The stranger politely removed the deerstalker before accepting Patrick’s handshake. “My name is Astor. Sir Bernard Astor.”

  Patrick struggled to regain his composure, then replied with a smirk, “Oh, a Knight of the realm. I didn’t realise we were being so formal. In that case please address me as Pope Gregory.” A smile spread across Bernard’s face and he joined Patrick in laughing at their shared joke.

  Bernard raised his finger suggesting he was about to speak. Patrick tried to look serious. “I like you ... Your Holiness ...” Patrick stifled a snigger as Bernard raised his finger again in mock reproach. “You are intelligent and quick of wit, a useful combination. My real name is of no importance, it’s so long since I used it, I hardly remember it myself, and so Bernard will have to suffice. I’m traveling to the new world in search of a new me. One that is a damned site richer than the old me, and a new name, with a shiny title to hang it on, might just be the key to unlocking New York society.”

  Patrick nodded knowingly, the ridiculously over-the-top country gentleman look and fake upper class accent were all part of a cunning ruse, a deception that started the moment he boarded this vessel with its exclusive passenger list.

  “Let me get this straight, just to avoid confusion. You’re a con man with lofty ambitions of tricking your way into New World riches.”

  Bernard removed a shiny hip flask from his pocket, taking a brief swig, he offered it to Patrick. “I prefer the term artist ... con artist, but essentially you are correct. As I alluded to earlier, you’re not fooled easily, a condition of great value in my occupation. Unless, that is, you have other plans on your arrival in New York?”

  Patrick took a shot of the unexpectedly smooth whiskey and returned the flask to Bernard who slipped it back in his pocket without breaking eye contact. Patrick sensed Bernard was awaiting a response. Was he about to unmask him as the amoral reprobate he undoubtedly was, or were they cut from the same cloth? Patrick couldn’t deny the suggestion intrigued him, and going to America with an ally, someone to watch his back, was a much safer plan. Hell, Patrick didn’t even have a plan, just an ill-tempered monkey.

  Just as Patrick was about to respond to Bernard’s quizzical stare, two shrill blasts from the ship’s whistle interrupted their conversation. He looked at his pocket watch and noted the time. It was noon precisely. With a wry smile, he said, “I believe we have much to discuss, Sir Bernard, but right now I would like to view our departure from the upper decks. It is a sight I wish to remember for the rest of my life.”

  “Of course, dear boy. Would you mind if I joined you to witness this historic moment?” Bernard stepped back from the door with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.

  “I would be delighted,” replied Patrick as he accepted Bernard’s gracious invitation to lead the way. He headed for the stairway up to the second class deck area, hardly sparing a thought for Pandora and the valise stowed under the bench.

  William heard the ship’s whistle sound as he stood in his first class Stateroom on A Deck. Bridget was clinging to his leg begging him to stop. He could barely make out her words as she sniveled an apology for her disgusting behaviour at the boarding gate. William couldn’t abide snivelling, it wasn’t the English thing to do, but he couldn’t afford the time to further correct his errant wife now. He carefully placed his riding crop in the top drawer of Bridget’s dressing table so she will see it whenever she opened her drawer. It would serve as a reminder of the consequences of her ill-discipline.

  He pushed his wife’s tear-stained face away from his thigh then walked to the door leaving Bridget, curled up in a protective ball, on the plush Axminster carpet. “We are to dine with the Captain at eight sharp. Please try to look presentable.” Then without so much as a backward glance at his wife, William left the cabin, slamming the door behind him. He had plans for the afternoon, plans that began with a full bodied red and ended with a full bodied blonde.

  As he strolled along the wide corridor, William was vaguely aware of the mighty ship’s movement, a gentle sideways nudge as the tugs began the job of gingerly guiding the vessel down the River Test and out into The Solent. He nodded politely to an elderly woman dressed in the traditional black of mourning, who stood patiently waiting for her chambermaid to open the door to her stateroom. She responded with a discreet nod and a faint smile, although her eyes remained sad and lifeless. William remembered doing business with her late husband and had met her several times, although he couldn’t remember her name. He was about to offer his assistance when, to his relief, the servant pushed the door open and ushered the widow inside, sparing William the awkwardness that comes when speaking to someone you should know but whose name you just can’t recall.

  Once the door had clicked shut, he continued his stroll, heading for the aft lounge which, according to reports, was as fine and lavish as any hotel in Europe.

  William wasn’t disappointed. Even with his expensive tastes and ostentatious style, which he’d become renowned for flaunting at any given opportunity, the room’s design and craftsmanship took his breath away. The room, lit by four huge bay windows and a large central chandelier, boasted an ornate white marble fireplace that provided the main focal point. Carved oak paneling, with large inlaid mirrors that would not have looked out of place at the Palace of Versailles, surrounded the fireplace. The room also contained an extensive library and a bar where William ordered a glass of Beaujolais before choosing a comfortable seat facing one of the bay windows. Here he planned to while away an hour or so inspecting the passenger list for business associations, both past and future, and peruse the library for a little light reading before his secret rendezvous.

  Eight

  The time-consuming task of collecting the luncheon trays from half of the upper deck’s thirty-six luxurious staterooms had been allocated to Esme, and by mid-afternoon, she still had the last few rooms to clear. She felt sure the horrible ogre, Miss Wilson, had singled her out for this task as punishment for her earlier insolence. Her mother always said she had a tendency to be overconfident, a trait she apparently inherited from her father, and this would one day lead her headlong into trouble. Esme was sure that day had come. She’d had plenty of time to reflect upon her earlier outburst and realized how stupid she had been. Esme pondered the thought she would never get hired for the return voyage, let alone future crossings, because of her earlier outburst. This job had been her dream since she and her father watched the cruise liners sail out of port bound for exotic locations when she was still a little girl. It was going to be her and Charlotte’s way of escaping the life of poverty and prostitution, which so often ensnared young women living in the Victorian slums that surrounded the port.

  Feeling a little despondent, Esme surmised she had screwed that up on the first day, simply because she couldn’t keep her big mouth shut. She knew the frustration and anger she felt came from her own stupidity, but she still focused her hatred towards Miss Wilson and her haughty, holier-than-thou attitude. She fought back tears every time she replayed the incident in
her head, wishing she could go back and do things differently, like groveling apologetically as was expected of her and toeing the line like any other young girl desperate to keep her job.

  As she stood outside the door of the next stateroom, Esme took a deep breath and forced her anger into a tight ball before burying it deep inside herself. She quickly ran her hands down her new uniform and smoothed out her starched pinafore before darting a finger around the inside of her collar trying to relieve the irritation where the material’s newness rubbed at her soft skin. Then she knocked firmly on the door.

  There was no reply.

  Esme waited a respectful ten seconds then knocked again, only harder this time. A woman’s voice, muffled by the thickness of the door, answered inviting her in. Turning the cold brass doorknob, Esme gently pushed the door open and stepped inside to find the suite’s lavishly decorated reception room unoccupied, the luncheon tray sat on the table, its food untouched. As she hurried to gather the tray, she heard movement from the bedroom.

  “Hello?” she called out. “Maid service. I’ve come to collect the luncheon tray.”

  There was no answer. As she listened for a response, Esme craned her neck trying to peer through the half-open bedroom door. Her hearing picked up a feint rustling sound, like something dragging across the room’s deep carpet followed by a brief moment of silence, broken only by a low moan and a gentle sigh.

  “Hello?” Esme called out again, her annoyance returning. Surely, whoever was in the other room must have heard her call the first time? This time there was a definite response to her call. It started as a low groan then grew into barely coherent speech punctuated by loud gulping sobs. Esme took a few tentative steps towards the door before asking in a loud voice, “Are you alright in there? Do you need any help?” As her palm touched the smooth surface of the door, her confidence drained away, and she fought the urge to turn and run back to the safety of the corridor. Summoning all her resolve, she gently pushed the door inwards.

  She was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted her.

  A young woman sprawled face down across the bed, the back of her expensive dress torn open to reveal not only her pale skin but several painful-looking wounds. A few of these thin, dark lesions had split open, soaking the dress’ bodice and forming little dark rivulets of blood on the dazzling whiteness of the new sheets. The young woman’s tousled hair, clumsily pulled from its style and left hanging like a lopsided bird’s nest, obscured the woman’s face, preventing Esme from identifying her.

  Esme gasped involuntarily, momentarily backing away, unsure whether the woman was alive or dead, the ghastly image of the dead body from the previous evening still hauntingly fresh in her mind.

  The young woman on the bed let out another low moan and tried unsuccessfully to lift her head. Esme remained rooted to the spot, unable to run away and unwilling to advance. She tried to speak, but like her feet, her throat was paralysed with fear. She opened her mouth, but the simple words she formed so easily in her head failed to rise past the lump in her throat. She took a deep breath, forcing the air deep into her lungs, holding it there for a second, before allowing it to escape slowly through pursed lips as she concentrated on her disobedient legs, urging them into action.

  Esme knew this was not the time for feint hearts, the woman obviously needed her help. After a fleeting moment of hesitation, she pushed her fear aside and ran to the bed. Crouching next to the prostrate figure’s head, she carefully moved the mass of dark hair away from the stranger’s face. Esme immediately recognised the tear-stained face of Mrs. Grafton. Offering soothing words of comfort, she gently stroked Bridget’s dishevelled hair.

  Esme had only shown the young woman and her handsome new husband to the suite a few hours ago. How could someone get into the room and attack a woman without discovery? Locked iron gates protected the first class section of the ship, preventing the steerage passengers from being able to mingle with the upper class. Even if someone from first class entered the cabin intent on attacking Mrs. Grafton, which Esme thought unlikely, then surely her screams would have alerted someone.

  Esme had spent the last couple of hours clearing trays from nearby cabins and the corridors had been a constant hive of activity with servants attending to their employer’s needs and people returning, having witnessed the ship navigate around the Isle of Wight, from one of the cafés or restaurants on the upper decks.

  “Who did this?” Esme asked as she glanced fearfully around the room, suddenly aware the attacker may still be in the suite.

  “I cannot say.” Bridget’s voice was barely a whisper. “But you are quite safe; he left some time ago.” She winced as she tried lifting her head from the tear-stained pillow, but the effort was too much, and she slumped forward with a frustrated cry.

  “But you must!” Esme said, “You need to be seeing a doctor, and reporting the attack to the proper people, the beast that done this, he must be caught.”

  “If I speak up he will only punish me more, and I fear there is not a living soul who would believe me.” As she listened to Bridget’s voice, Esme thought her words were more for her own benefit than Esme’s, convincing herself silence was the safest course of action.

  “Any man capable of such a despicable act against a lady such as yourself is too dangerous to be allowed to roam freely about the boat. If you know his name you must speak up. You are not without considerable influence, and your husband wields immense power. Who’d dare dismiss you as a liar, and the wounds ... well, they speak for themselves?” Esme was trying to keep her voice calm and reassuring, aware of both Mrs. Grafton’s lofty status and the obvious fragility of her mind.

  Bridget attempted to sit up again, gratefully accepting Esme’s help with a half-smile that transformed into a grimace of pain. She swung her legs off the bed with a stoical moan then wiped her eyes with a silk handkerchief before replying. “I barely have influence over my own household, and as to my husband, well there lies the problem.” As Mrs. Grafton spoke, Esme moved around the large bed to take a better look at her injuries. She gently peeled away the edges of Mrs. Grafton’s garments to reveal three distinct red welts; each had torn the flesh sufficiently to cause considerable bleeding.

  Bridget Grafton paused, flinching while Esme inspected her back, and then added in a soft voice, “It was his hand wielding the riding crop.” She fell silent again allowing Esme to grasp the significance of her words, then after a lengthy pause added, “So you see my dilemma?”

  Stunned, Esme stopped her inspection of the wealthy socialite’s wounds. She had witnessed firsthand the injuries caused by a drunken sailor’s fists, returning from the pub to find his supper not ready. Esme was aware of the violence a man could use on a woman he claimed to love, but for an officer and a gentleman to use a riding crop on a lady of breeding was beyond her understanding. Esme took a moment to gather her thoughts before replying, unsure whether Mrs. Grafton had asked her a direct question or had simply made a statement. “Yes, I do, Ma’am.” Then with more conviction, she added, “I still think you should see the ship’s doctor. These wounds need cleaning and a dressing.”

  “It would only raise awkward questions, and I’m sure the physician will be duty bound to report such injuries, especially with them happening to the wife of one of the ship’s wealthier passengers.” Bridget unbuttoned the front of her dress but struggled to pull the sleeves from her shoulders, her face contorting in pain. Seeing her distress, Esme hurried around the bed to help. She gently eased the dress off one arm at a time then carefully peeled away Bridget’s torn and blood-soaked undergarments.

  “Well, if you’ll not speak with the doctor then I must insist you allow me to treat you. I have some experience tending injuries obtained in accidents and drunken fights. I could use spare laundry as temporary bandages.” Esme, realising she may have spoken out of turn, added in a more deferential tone, “I mean, if that would be agreeable to you, Ma’am.”

  Bridget allowed a small smi
le of relief to brighten her face for a moment, “That would be very agreeable ... I’m sorry, you must think me rude, but I have forgotten your name?”

  Giving a brief, self-conscious curtsey to the half-naked patron, an act that obviously amused Mrs. Grafton, she answered, “Esme, Ma’am. And I do not think you the slightest bit rude.”

  “I think we are beyond social niceties, Esme,” Bridget hunched forward, her arms folded across her exposed breasts. “I suspect you know who I am, as it was you who escorted us to our cabin, but please call me Bridget.” Then, seeing Esme’s look of discomfort, added, “Or Mistress Bridget, if you are happier with that.” She gave another half-smile, half grimace as Esme nodded her acceptance. “I suggest then, we continue with some haste as I am due to dine with the Captain this evening, and I do not want you to get in trouble for not completing your tasks.”

  Nine

  The Dining Saloon’s main reception area was lavish to the point of pretentiousness with Chesterfield settees set around a Steinway grand piano. The three elevator doors were paneled with oak and the grand staircase, down which William and Bridget walked, swept majestically through the room. As they awaited their turn to be seated, Bridget admired the elegant white Jacobean styled ceiling and white oak walls which added to the room’s modern, spacious feel. Although large, the design gave the room an intimate atmosphere with carefully positioned alcoves creating an illusion of privacy.