Collision Course (3 page)

RMS
TITANIC
F
RIDAY,
A
PRIL
12, 1912 5:55
P.M.

Terrified, Alfie spun on his heel. The figure was so close that it took a moment for him to focus and recognize who was standing there.

“Paddy!” he wheezed.

The young stowaway was bent over double with laughter. “If only you could have seen the look upon your face!”

“You fool! I might have done you a serious injury!”

Paddy, who had survived a year on the streets of Belfast, was unperturbed. “How does your being frightened harm me?”

“Don’t be cute!” Alfie rasped. “I could have screamed my head off and brought half the crew down on us. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought we agreed you were going to hide in steerage.”

“I can’t stay there anymore,” Paddy replied. “Their stewards can count, same as in first and second class. One of them remembered how many sons Mrs. Rankin came aboard with. She wasn’t inclined to part with one of her own, you see. So here I am. A long story, it is, but Miss Fancy Pants sent me down to wait for you.” He flashed Alfie a cheeky grin. “You needn’t bother with the hatboxes.”

Alfie groaned. “What am I going to do with you, Paddy? You know you’re not safe in the hold.”

Paddy shrugged. “I’m not safe anywhere. This place is no worse and no better.” He locked earnest eyes on Alfie’s. “Don’t you worry. If I’m found, I’ll not tell them who helped me — neither you nor the girls.”

“You can’t let yourself get arrested! They’ll put you in the brig with those Gilhooley monsters!”

“Maybe not,” Paddy reasoned. “The captain knows they tried to murder me.”

“Do you think the White Star Line cares what happens to a stowaway? Mr. Lightoller will be more than happy to let those gangsters finish the job they started!”

“Then I won’t get caught,” Paddy said stubbornly. “If the officers get too close, I’ll just move on. I did it in Belfast. I can do it here.”

Alfie shook his head. “Not all day and all night. Everybody has to sleep. Even you.”

Paddy nodded reluctantly. “You have the right of it. So where does a desperate fugitive lay his head for a few hours to gather strength for the next chase?” He looked around, his bright gaze coming to rest on an enormous steamer trunk. “Would you take a gander at that! It’s easily the size of a small bedchamber.”

Alfie was horrified. “What are you thinking? That luggage belongs to John Jacob Astor!”

“The richest man in the world can well afford to lend me the use of it for a few days.” Paddy slithered under the netting and attacked the brass lock with the hairpin he’d used to gain access to suite B-56. It took about seven seconds before the lid was open and he was examining the contents.

The trunk was piled high with the most luxurious silks and satin brocades — fabrics purchased by the famous couple in Europe and Egypt to have made into clothing back in the United States.

“This’ll be a nice, soft bed,” Paddy decided. “Now for some air holes.”

“Paddy, there’s a difference between kipping in some wealthy man’s trunk and making holes in it!”

“Merely small ones,” Paddy promised. “By the hinges in the back, where they won’t be noticed.” He
inserted the hairpin in the joints, working the narrow metal in a small circle to create some separation. “That should do it. Now I just have to remove some of this stuff so I fit.” He grabbed an armload of silky material.

“Be careful with that!” Alfie moaned. “It probably costs more than you and I will ever touch in our whole lives.”

“Would I deprive a millionaire of his fancy rags? I’m folding it beautifully, I am. And I’ll put it right into one of his other bags.”

He held up a large leather case. All at once, the piece fell open, broken, and out showered books, clothing, and a single torn leaf of heavy yellowed paper.

Scrapbook paper.

Alfie flattened himself to the floor and scrambled under the netting to join Paddy with the Astor luggage. The two stared at the ripped sheet and then at each other.

They had seen this paper before, and in this very baggage compartment. The scrapbook it had come from had been loose in the hold. Its pages chronicled grisly crimes from twenty-four years before — the Whitechapel murders. The killer, known only as Jack the Ripper, had never been caught or even identified.

The scrapbook held old newspaper broadsheets and notes that could only have been written by one person — Jack the Ripper himself. Worse, there were “souvenirs” from the victims — bloodstained fabric, earrings, even human teeth and skin.

Still pasted to the paper were a few links of an inexpensive bracelet above a handwritten notation:

The formation of the letters was a perfect match for the writing they had seen in the scrapbook.

“But —” Paddy was thunderstruck. “This is the
Astors’
luggage!”

“I don’t think so,” Alfie told him, round-eyed. “Look — the Astor trunks all match, except for this one. What if the porters broke this bag and hid it to avoid getting into trouble?” He examined the luggage tag, which proclaimed that this leather bag belonged to the occupant of stateroom A-17.

“So you’re saying that the person in A-17 — that’s Jack the Ripper?” asked Paddy.

Alfie set his jaw grimly. “I’ve got to go back and take my passengers to dinner. But don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

RMS
TITANIC
F
RIDAY,
A
PRIL
12, 1912, 8:45
P.M.

The
Titanic
’s first-class dining saloon was the largest and most luxurious room aboard any ship anywhere. It sat more than five hundred people in glorious Jacobean splendor, ablaze in the electric light.

For the first time, table 22 had a full complement of diners, including Juliana’s father, the earl, and Sophie’s mother, Amelia Bronson, the noted suffragist.

Major Mountjoy was there, too. Thanks to the talents of the ship’s surgeon, he was no longer bent at a right angle, but at a more relaxed 135 degrees. He sat there like an oriental potentate, propped up by many pillows. And as usual, he provided most of the conversation.

“My word! I am bowed down with grief that I was
unable to complete my instructions to the two young ladies.”

The earl raised melancholy bloodshot eyes from the contemplation of his hand, where there were, alas, no cards. “What are you talking about? What instructions?”

“Papa,” Juliana explained patiently, “the major was kind enough to be showing us the fine points of ringtoss when he injured his back.”

Amelia Bronson spoke up in the sharp, no-nonsense voice that was natural to her. “Tell me, Major: Is it because you happen to be a man that you are instantly qualified to dispense lessons on a pointless skill that could be learned by any half-intelligent baboon?”

“Mother —” Sophie began warningly. Her mother’s speechmaking and activism often landed her under arrest and even in jail. These were the moments that Sophie dreaded the most. The dining saloon was such a beautiful, festive place. Why couldn’t Mother simply enjoy the magnificent meal instead of scoring points for women’s rights? Major Muttonchop may have been as tiresome as he was rotund, but he was a nice man who didn’t deserve to be skewered by a woman with a tongue like a razor-sharp sword.

More embarrassing still was Amelia Bronson’s choice of clothing. She wore exclusively purple, white, and green, the colors of the suffragist movement. Here they were, among the wealthiest, most celebrated people alive, and Mother looked like she was draped in the flag of some exotic banana republic.

Luckily, Major Mountjoy was not offended by his tablemate’s harsh words. “Well met, Mrs. Bronson. Very well met, indeed. I happen to be a staunch supporter of votes for women. It would definitely pretty up those polling stations. Such drab, dreary places.”

Amelia Bronson said nothing, but her eyes burned. Being considered merely decorative was almost as bad as being denied the vote.

Anxious for a change of subject, Sophie glanced expectantly at a passing waiter. The elegance and beauty of the room was exceeded only by the sheer volume of fine food served there. Dinner in first class stretched for twelve or thirteen courses and always ended with a dessert from Henri Jaillet, the renowned pastry chef. (Last night it had been chocolate mousse napoleons, each piece a work of art.) The diners were the pampered of the world, used to the very best of everything. And they got it here.

When the lights dimmed in the saloon, excitement
buzzed in the vast room. Never mind that every single diner was already full to bursting. The anticipation of the next marvelous dessert was all that was required to give them an appetite.

An army of waiters marched in from the kitchen, bearing huge platters of cherries jubilee flambé. There were oohs and aahs, and even a sprinkling of applause. The flaming brandy cast a bluish glow on the white walls and the gentlemen’s gleaming starched shirtfronts.

When the tray tipped and the burning dessert slid onto table 23, the fine linen cloth ignited almost immediately. There were screams as the flames shot toward the ceiling. In the mad scramble to evacuate the nearby tables, the earl took Juliana’s hand and spirited her out of harm’s way.

Sophie reached for her mother’s arm and found that Amelia Bronson was no longer beside her.

“Mother?”

“
Stand back
!” bellowed a strident female voice.

Mrs. Bronson charged through the chaos, her gown hiked up as she hauled a heavy extinguisher to the scene of the fire. Two huge leaps brought her first onto a chair, and then atop the table itself. With a gargantuan effort, she upended the extinguisher and pressed the nozzle.

The explosion of chemical foam was sudden and violent, but Mrs. Bronson never wavered. Within seconds, a mountain of lather covered the tabletop, and the fire was out.

Still brandishing the metal tank, she stood there, hair hanging down in wet strings, her purple, white, and green evening gown soaked in foam.

Total silence fell in the saloon. Even the musicians put down their instruments and stared.

Captain E. J. Smith, resplendent in his white dress uniform, approached the wreckage. “Magnificent, madam. This vessel owes you a debt of gratitude.”

Sophie knew all too well what was coming next. As the excitement of the moment faded, Amelia Bronson would realize that, in a way, she was in a very familiar place — standing on a raised platform, surrounded by an audience. She was not going to pass up the chance to speak her mind in front of some of the most influential people on two continents.

“Take a look at the men!” she challenged in ringing tones. “Where are our husbands and fathers, whom we trust to shape the world? Cowering in corners! Lying on the deck! Tiptoeing for the exits! I stand before you, a woman — one of half the population not trusted to make the decisions affecting our lives. And I say: Had I not made
this
decision — to
act — this beautiful dining room might well lie in charred ruins!
Votes for women
!” she bellowed, trying to start a chant.

Her words echoed off silent walls.

“Quite right,” said Captain Smith with much less warmth and enthusiasm. He held out his arm, but she made a point of jumping down without his assistance.

“Votes for women,” she muttered, glaring at the female faces. “Even the ones who don’t help the cause.”

Sophie had to turn away to hide her humiliation.

The earl patted Sophie’s hand sympathetically. “My poor girl, we cannot choose our relatives.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Bronson isn’t entirely wrong,” Juliana pointed out thoughtfully. “She alone had the presence of mind to fetch the extinguisher, while the men —” Her eyes fell on a white-haired gentleman who was sprawled on the floor beside his overturned chair. He was reaching for his crutch, which had landed just beyond his grasp. “Captain!” she exclaimed. “Someone must help him!”

Captain Smith and a waiter assisted the man to his feet and restored the crutch to its place under his arm. The captain motioned for a steward, and Alfie stepped forward.

“Accompany Mr. Masterson to his cabin and see to it that he is comfortable.”

“Yes, sir.” Alfie positioned himself at Mr. Masterson’s free arm and offered his support. “Easy does it, sir. We’ll go out to the lift and get you home all right and tight.”

Masterson cast him a sour look. “I’m lame in the legs, boy, not the head. You’re not talking to a child.”

By the time the two limped out of the dining saloon, the ruined table had been whisked away and replaced with a spotless new one. The waiters were serving the cherries jubilee, minus the fire. And the orchestra was once again playing dinner music. Silverware began to clink against fine china.

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Mr. Masterson told Alfie impatiently in the passageway. “I can manage well enough on my own.”

“It’s no trouble at all, sir,” Alfie said cheerfully. “I’m happy to be of service.”

“Oh, well, as long as
you’re
happy,” Masterson growled. “Did anybody ask me if
I’m
happy?”

“Now, sir,” Alfie soothed. “The order came from Captain Smith himself.”

Mr. Masterson was unimpressed. “That overstuffed popinjay?”

“Sir! Captain Smith is the commodore of the White
Star Line, the most experienced sea captain in the world!”

The white-haired man leaned on his crutch and peered at Alfie critically. “How long have
you
been a sailor? Ten seconds?”

Alfie’s face burned. Was his inexperience so obvious? “This is my first voyage,” he admitted.

“I never would have guessed,” Mr. Masterson said sarcastically. “A Deck,” he barked to the elevator operator.

“Did you have a pleasant dinner, sir?” the young man asked.

“Oh, splendid. I was almost set ablaze, and then some crazed Amazon made a speech about votes for women. As if
that
could ever happen. Lord, save us!”

Once on A Deck, Masterson thumped on his crutch with such great speed that Alfie had to scramble to keep up with him.

The older man fumbled with his keys and let himself into the stateroom.

“Would you like me to come in, sir?” Alfie offered. “I could assist you —”

Slam
! The door shut, nearly taking off the tip of Alfie’s nose.

Alfie tried to think charitable thoughts about a poor crippled man. But all that came to mind was:
What kind of miserable person treats a servant this way?

And then his eyes focused on the brass plaque that identified the stateroom number.

A-17.

He had a brief vision of a baggage tag and a ghastly piece of scrapbook paper.

Mr. Masterson was Jack the Ripper.