The Company of the Dead (82 page)

This was one of the first places that had flooded—would flood. One of the officers, perhaps Boxhall, would come down here after the collision to find the room awash. The mailmen would spend a short time trying to shift the sacks out of the water before realising the futility of their task. None of them would survive the sinking.

He checked his watch: 6 p.m. He wound the mechanism. The last thing he needed was to lose track of the time. It would be thirty hours, give or take, till they struck.

He stared through the darkness at the curving wall of the starboard bulkhead; daring it to buckle, open a seam, finger-wide, and admit the icy waters of the Atlantic. He heard some movement from the opposite wall. Someone was trying to gain entry through the baggage hold. He inched his way back along the floor and worked his way towards the bulkhead. He burrowed deeper under the piled bags of mail.

A crack of light widened into brightness. He heard breathing, ragged, coming from the doorway, and then a voice—Kennedy’s—calling out to him.

“Mr Wells, I have the master-at-arms with me and I fear his patience is drawing to a close. I’ve assured him that you would come peacefully, but I can’t vouch for his frame of mind. He makes our mutual friend seem perfectly charming by comparison.”

Kennedy, trying to match the patois of the era, was laying it on thick. He’d plainly spent too little time among the people of this world.
Our mutual friend
. Wells pictured the master-at-arms as some Dickensian throwback, with mutton-chop sideburns and red, spider-veined cheeks. He had to suppress a hysterical urge to laugh, and tried to slow down his breathing.

“Come, come, Mr Wells. You’ll miss your supper.”

There was a desperate edge to Kennedy’s invitation. They were moving through the room. It was hard to gauge the number of footsteps. Then came the sound of more men tramping down the stairs from the post office above.

It was over.

Voices issued from the stairs, one saying, “This should be the last of it for today.”

Another replied, “With all the Marconigrams going out to Cape Race, you’d think no one had the time for writing letters.”

“You would at that.”

With the approach of the newcomers, the footsteps on the mailroom floor scuttled away into silence. He heard the door to the baggage hold close.

“Did you hear something, Smithee?”

“Might have been the door to the outer office. I’ve been meaning to pass a message on to Mr Andrews about that.”

The postal clerks gained the mailroom floor. He felt the sacks shift above him as more were added to the hoard. They continued their work in silence, the only sound the labour of their task, as bag was piled upon bag.

Finally they departed. He waited for ten minutes before stealing up the metal stairs to the post office. It was deserted. He waited a little longer before exiting the room and climbing the stairs to the third-class cabins on E deck. He found a lavatory and stood relieving himself, wanting to cry, wanting to vomit, but only producing a dry, retching gag in his throat. His clothes, damp through with perspiration, clung to him with a heady stench of fear.

Someone was taking a shower. They’d left a pile of fresh clothes by one of the water closets. He grabbed a shirt and trousers and escaped back down to G deck. He removed his shoes and traversed the narrow corridors with an ear out for any sound of movement. A cabin door was open.

He peered in to see a young man lying on one of the bunks. He had a thick comb of blond hair and tawny skin but his background was unplaceable. The man took in his appearance and ogled him curiously.

“Do you speak English?” Wells asked hesitantly, turning an eye back to the corridor.

There were three other bunks in the bare room. Two of them showed signs of occupancy but one remained untouched. The man narrowed his eyes, saying nothing.

Wells reached for his wallet and emptied its contents onto the bed.

The man examined the pound notes and returned to Wells with a newly appreciative gaze. “Been a bad boy, have we?” His accent hinted at the lilting tones of England’s north.

“I’ve had my moments,” Wells replied with a measure of relief. “Can I stay here a while?”

“This lot would buy you a berth above with change. I like your watch, though. Did you pilfer that too?”

Wells had his shoes tucked under his arm. He glanced down at his watch, thankful that the binoculars remained well concealed behind the bundle of stolen clothing. “The watch is mine. Yours tomorrow night if you let me stay. But no one must know.” He felt a twist in his abdomen and added, “I’ll need food too.”

“Mum’s the word then.” The man swept up Wells’ money with all the deftness of a croupier. He drew a small trunk from below his bed and shovelled the booty inside. He glanced back up at Wells with a leer and said, “Welcome to steerage, mate.”

It’s out there
, Morgan thought.

The evening was cool. He stood by the ship’s stern on the poop deck. The last of the sun was a pink sheen at the ocean’s edge. They were sailing into darkness.

He peered at his watch. Doc was due on deck any time now.

Out there and waiting for us
.

You’re just an echo. The major told me so.

I’m barely that.

Morgan closed his eyes, banishing his dead companion. He reviewed the afternoon’s events.

The purser’s office held no items belonging to either Wells or his alias. Kennedy had found Wells’ trunk in the first-class baggage compartment. It showed signs of being ransacked, and recently. None of the adjacent bags had been touched. Whatever he intended on using was small enough, light enough, to be transferred in a small carry-all.

A gun would serve little purpose. If he planned on using explosive charges, in order to disable the propellers, he’d have to get past Kennedy’s guards outside the engine rooms. He might try to drop anchor. He might even try to warn Captain Smith directly, or first officer Murdoch.

He would have felt safe with me, bud.

Morgan started a thin-lipped smile. “He would have at that, Commander.”

Doc’s figure emerged from the shadows ahead. They acknowledged each other wearily.

Morgan said, “Good, you brought a coat. Joseph will be up to relieve you at midnight.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Catch a bite at the saloon, check out the lounges and the smoking room, and then turn in early. My watch starts at five.”

“Three of us,” Doc shook his head miserably. “Searching the largest ship in the world for one man.”

Morgan couldn’t think of a response. Someone had once said, “History repeats itself. The first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.” It certainly seemed true enough this cold, black night. Surely, he mused, by the time you had gone through the motions of uncountable revolutions, returning and returning and always getting it wrong, you were left with something far worse than that.

Kennedy had said this would be their last chance. The next step was oblivion.

They shook hands.

“Good luck, Doc. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He traversed the second-class promenade and took the aft stairs down to C deck. He walked the port-side corridor, stopping outside Wells’ cabin just to give the door handle a cursory twist. It was still locked. He reached the Grand Staircase and descended to the first-class reception room.

Kennedy was waiting for him by the elevators. “See anything?” The question was voiced with little expectation.

“Nothing.”

“We need to eat.”

Morgan followed him into the saloon. They took a corner table by one of the colonnades. Arched windows, sealed against the night, reflected the room’s glow. Kennedy ordered the lamb. Morgan ordered the beef.

“Who’s that?”

Morgan turned to follow Kennedy’s gaze. A thin gentleman, with brown hair and a thriving beard, was observing them over a pair of narrow glasses. He held their stare for a moment too long before turning away.

“That’s Stead.”

“The mystic?”

“The very same.” Morgan prodded some vegetables, chasing them around his plate.

“Considering his choice in ocean liners, he’s no Nostradamus.”

Morgan laughed briefly. Stead was on Wells’ list. So were Andrews, Smith, Murdoch, Wilde.

Astor.

“Joseph, whatever Wells plans on doing is subtle.”

Kennedy gave him a look.

“I know that must sound crazy in light of these last few days, but look at his list. The guy’s a catastrophic thinker. He wants to save the ship, but he only communes with the people he knew had died. Maybe he’s superstitious. Maybe he’s overly cautious. I don’t know.”

“Subtle.” Kennedy seemed to be testing the word.

“Whatever he has in mind has to take place with the barest of notice. Nothing drastic. He won’t sabotage the engines or brace the crew, nothing like that. He’s the same as us. We’re all creeping through history like it’s hallowed ground, because we know that’s exactly what it is. He’s only looking to cause the shallowest ripple.”

“Using something he had in his trunk.”

“Something that might have been lacking on the ship.”

“You mean apart from enough lifeboats.”

Morgan mustered a tight smile. “Apart from that.”

“Something that might make the smallest, yet most pertinent of differences.”

“But nothing too reliable. Remember, the ship struck an iceberg in our world too.”

“Three hours later.”

“Which reminds me,” Morgan said, “you have to relieve Doc at midnight.”

Kennedy shook his head.

“You’re not going?”

“The lookouts. This ship has the most lookouts of any vessel at sea. They’re on a rotating watch.”

“But there were no functioning binoculars in the crow’s nest. That came out at the tribunals. A damaged pair had been lost by Fleet earlier in the evening. They’d supposedly been the latest design.”

They were both smiling now.

Kennedy said, “That stupid little shit. Whatever he gave Fleet didn’t last the night.”

“Think he’ll try again?”

“He didn’t have us to contend with last time, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Nothing tonight, we need to conserve our energy. We should go get Doc and bring him in out of the cold. Tomorrow, one of us watches the crow’s nest and forecastle, another watches the bridge and wheelhouse. We’ll do it in overlapping shifts to avoid fatigue and suspicion.”

“Looks like we’re going to have ringside seats.”

Kennedy nodded dolefully.

“And what happens after midnight? What happens after we strike the ice?”

“It’s women and children first, I guess.”

Wells had washed his old clothes in the sink and left them to dry overnight. They could have done with ironing but they’d pass muster. All he needed was a few moments on the boat deck. Just long enough to pass on his message.

After that he would try to conceal himself in one of the lifeboats. He’d be quite safe there. No drills would be held today. Captain Smith, entertaining little desire to distress the sensibilities of his passengers, would cancel them.

It was ten-thirty. Most of the first- and second-class passengers would be at Sunday service, along with the senior staff. Their hymns would include prayers for the safety of those travelling at sea. He might not have shared their faith but he had every intention of seeing their prayers answered.

Wells reread the communication he had penned. It was cryptic enough to endure a rudimentary scan by the wireless staff without attracting too much attention. The recipient wouldn’t know what to make of it at first. It wouldn’t prevent any collisions but it should guarantee the timely rescue of everyone aboard.

He thought of it as his insurance policy.

He made his way to the third-class promenade on C deck. He wore an old black coat over his shirt and trousers. The brim of his cap was pulled low over his forehead. The binoculars were strapped to his waist.

There was an electric crane by the entrance to the second-class promenade. He stepped behind it, removed the coat and smoothed the creases from his shirt. He pulled back his cap and adjusted the ragged mop of his fringe. A metal gate, guarding access to second class, was unlocked. He swore to himself that there would be no need to bolt it shut tonight. Climbing the aft stairwell to B deck, he spotted the picture of himself outside the second-class smoking room. It was a line drawing that had been pinned beneath a warning posted by the entrance. The warning informed the reader that certain unscrupulous gentlemen had boarded the ship. It cautioned against playing at cards or gambling with unfamiliar persons. It identified him as Jonathan Wells. Anyone sighting him should notify the master-at-arms at once.

Wells almost smiled. Kennedy certainly was a piece of work. Thankfully, the deck was bare. There might still be time to reach the Marconi Room, two decks above. Dealing with the wireless operators, possibly forewarned of his arrival, would be another problem altogether.

Head down, he ascended to A deck. He didn’t see her till they collided at the top of the stair.

“I’m so sorry.” He crouched to the floor and retrieved the book she’d dropped. It was a volume of psalms.

“Mr Wells,” Marie said, “it appears as though clumsiness is the
least
of your transgressions.”

He flinched, but her smile softened the censure.

“Really, I may just have to turn you in and have you charged with neglect.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“You were supposed to join me for a stroll along the ship, sir. I even recall the promise of a shared meal.” Her eyes flashed. “
If
you can spare the time from fleecing the innocent rich.”

His initial impulse to elude her was replaced by a new strategy. Her dark, secretive eyes offered new hope.

He said, “I assure you, my transgressions are entirely manufactured. My name will cleared by morning, Marie. And when that happens, I’m hoping that a pleasant lunch might follow.”