The Lost Empress (23 page)

He looked up from the map to get his bearings. There were covered slips ahead, and on his right there were several long huts—one of which, according to the map, was the restaurant, which he soon found a few doors down. As he made his way inside, he was glad that Lady Metcalfe had chosen to meet him at the dockyard, or he might otherwise never have seen it. He supposed Alice must have visited many times herself, given who her father was, and he tried to imagine the dockyard as it had been then—fully functioning and unknowingly preparing for war.

Tayte thought the interior of the Wheelwrights’ had a cafeteria feel to it. It was long and narrow, the walls and vaulted ceiling painted chalky white, the bare wooden tables set along the side walls and in a continuous line down the centre, perhaps to represent a ship’s mess. It was quiet. Lady Metcalfe was easy to spot, sitting in a pale peach summer coat at one of the side tables, beneath one of several windows that ran the length of the building.

Tayte fixed his best smile as he approached, and at the
same time he noticed the brown envelope in front of her. ‘Lady Metcalfe,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you how excited I’ve been since I got your call.’

‘I just want to know the truth,’ Lady Metcalfe said, dispensing with the formalities. ‘The idea of a traitor in the family is doing nothing for my husband’s health.’

Tayte was about to offer an apology for stirring up the past as he had, but Lady Metcalfe continued without pause.

‘Did Alice Stilwell die when that ship went down in 1914, or didn’t she? Was she spying, and if so, why? I refuse to believe that a young girl with such a patriotic upbringing as Alice would have received from her father would do such a thing willingly.’

Tayte didn’t believe it either. ‘I’ve seen proof that confirms Alice was wanted in connection with spying,’ Tayte said. Diplomatically or otherwise, he chose not to tell her that Alice had also been wanted in connection with murder. ‘As for the rest . . .’ he paused. ‘All I can say is that I’m still working on it.’

Lady Metcalfe placed a hand on the envelope before her and slid it across the table. ‘Maybe this will help answer my first question.’

Tayte opened it. When he saw the edges of two old photographs, the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. He held his breath as he withdrew them and set them down in front of him. One image was of a family gathering at Christmas time, showing several happy-looking people in front of the tree. He had no difficulty picking Alice out, or her father, whom he recognised from Davina’s photograph. The second image was a full portrait of Alice Stilwell—or Dixon; it no longer made a difference. He knew right there and then that he was looking at the proof he needed. He’d studied the photograph his client had given him of Alice Dixon enough times to need no further confirmation. They were without question one and the same person.

Just the same, for Lady Metcalfe’s benefit Tayte went into his briefcase and found the image. He set it down beside the others and let his smile flourish. There were perhaps a few years between them, but in those years Alice had changed little. He turned the photographs around.

‘I think that does indeed answer your first question,’ he said. ‘No, Alice Stilwell did not die in 1914.’

Lady Metcalfe studied the photographs in silence for several seconds, and Tayte could see that the stark comparison between the images had taken her aback. He supposed then that she had likely come to him hoping for a different outcome. Perhaps she had hoped to prove his assignment folly, and that realising it as such, he would pack his bags and go home again—and for her husband’s sake, stir the Metcalfe family past no more.

‘Would it be okay with you if I held on to these photos for the time being?’ Tayte asked. ‘I’ll be sure to return them once my assignment’s finished.’

The sudden change in Lady Metcalfe’s expression told Tayte that she wasn’t keen on the idea. ‘Well, I . . .’ She paused as if weighing up her answer. Then she seemed to change her mind. ‘Yes, I suppose that would be okay.’

‘Thanks,’ Tayte said. ‘I’ll take good care of them.’ He gathered the photographs together and put them in his briefcase. ‘Now only one of your questions remains to be answered. Why did she do it?’

‘And
how
could she do it?’ Lady Metcalfe said. ‘I mean, how could she go on with her life, letting her children believe she was dead?’

‘That’s a question I’d like the answer to myself,’ Tayte said, coming to realise now that things must have become very desperate for Alice.

‘They were adopted,’ Lady Metcalfe said. ‘Did you know? Their grandparents, Charles and Lilian Metcalfe, looked after them at first, but they eventually made it legal.’

‘Yes, I was aware of that from my earlier research,’ Tayte said. He went to get up. ‘Can I get you a coffee, or maybe some tea?’

Lady Metcalfe glanced over at the self-service counter and then turned back to Tayte. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, as if the crockery, let alone the contents, fell too far short of her expectations. ‘I must be getting back to Reginald.’ She stood up and Tayte stood with her. ‘If you should find out why Alice did what she did, you will let me know, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Very well then. Good luck, and goodbye for now.’

With that, Lady Metcalfe left, and Tayte went to the counter and bought himself a large black coffee, which he sat and drank while he thought about Alice and the facts, as he saw them, of the closing stages of her journey. He took out the photographs of her again, and beneath them he set out several other documents in chronological order, hoping that they might help him to understand what had happened in those scant hours between the
Empress of Ireland
leaving Quebec and the disaster that awaited her.

The first record showed that Alice had boarded the
Laurentic
on 3 May, bound for Quebec. That leg of the journey seemed straightforward enough. She had arrived in Canada and had in all likelihood stayed with someone called Phoebe Dodson. The second record he set down showed that Alice had boarded the
Empress of Ireland
on 28 May for the return journey, which told Tayte that Alice had intended to return to England, presumably because at that point she had found a way to stay her execution and get her life back.

The next record was for Henry Stilwell’s entry on the ship’s passenger list, which told Tayte that Henry was travelling in separate accommodation to Alice. Next to that record he placed another, which showed that Henry was sharing a cabin with a man named Albrecht, which Tayte thought was surely a German name. He also thought that had to hold some significance.

The last document he set down was the telegram Albrecht had sent to Frank Saxby, longstanding friend of the Metcalfe family. He knew it would be difficult to find out who Mr W. Albrecht was, but Saxby remained high on Tayte’s list of people to look into further. As was Henry Stilwell. He still couldn’t fathom why Alice and Henry were travelling in separate cabins, and in different classes, aboard the
Empress of Ireland
. He imagined then that Henry had not been with Alice when she boarded the ship, which led him to wonder where he had been all this time and what had kept them apart during what was clearly a most difficult time for Alice. The questions dominated Tayte’s thoughts as he continued to sit and drink his coffee. Whatever the answer, one thing was certain—they had been brought together again for that ill-fated voyage aboard the
Empress of Ireland
on 28 May 1914.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Quebec City, Canada. Thursday, 28 May 1914.

The twin-funnelled ocean steamer RMS
Empress of Ireland
was the pride of Canadian Pacific’s twenty-vessel-strong White Empress fleet. Built in Scotland and launched eight years earlier in 1906, she was 570 feet in length with a beam of almost 66 feet. She boasted an average speed of eighteen knots, allowing her to cross the Atlantic in less than a week.

Alice Stilwell was standing on the shelter deck, dressed in a white lace tea gown and boater hat, waving back at the many people on the pier who had come to wish their friends and family bon voyage. The Salvation Army had struck up a hymn she recognised called ‘God Be with You ’til We Meet Again,’ which she began to hum along to. It seemed that everyone on the pier had a Union Jack flag, which they waved enthusiastically as the air filled with cries of ‘Goodbye!’ It was almost four thirty in the afternoon. In a matter of minutes, the ship that had helped settle Canada would cast off and embark on its ninety-sixth voyage.

Archie’s half-sister, Phoebe, had wanted to come to the pier to see Alice off, but Alice had asked her not to. She knew she could not trust Frank Saxby, despite the warnings she had given him about turning his notebook over to the authorities, and she did not want to put anyone else at risk. She had been on her guard since she arrived at Quebec Harbour earlier that afternoon to watch the
Empress of Ireland
arrive from Montreal.

When Alice had gone to the address Archie had given her, Phoebe had welcomed her just as he said she would, and it was easy to see the family resemblance in her. It had saddened Alice to the point of wanting to stay somewhere else at first, simply because Phoebe reminded her so much of Archie, but Phoebe would not hear of it once she knew who Alice was.

‘Archie’s childhood sweetheart,’ Phoebe had called her with a grin, and Alice couldn’t bring herself to tell her that Archie was dead. It was selfish of her, she knew, but she also thought that telling her might jeopardise her situation, and she knew Archie would not have wanted that, so she made up some story instead, which just made her feel worse. But Phoebe and her family were very kind, realising that Alice must be in trouble to have come to them in such a manner, and they didn’t pry. Alice would tell them everything one day, and hopefully soon, and then if Phoebe could find it in her heart to forgive her once the full story was known, it was her hope that they would take comfort in one another over Archie’s death. She knew she owed everyone the truth, and she longed to tell it, but if she were to be believed after all her deceit, she needed Henry, without whom she felt she was beyond redemption.

Alice had bought her return ticket to Liverpool soon after she arrived in Quebec off the
Laurentic
eleven days earlier, having allowed what she considered to be enough time for Frank Saxby to arrange for her husband to board the ship and make the crossing with her. She was travelling second class and had been informed that she would be accompanied by 170 members of the Salvation Army, who were on their way to an international conference in London.

That same day, with her ticket bought, she had gone to the local telegraph office to wire Saxby the particulars of her journey, thinking to fabricate her address on the telegram so that no one would know where to find her, at least until she was aboard the
Empress
. She had not yet seen Henry, but as passenger numbers were close to the liner’s capacity of almost sixteen hundred, she supposed it was unlikely she would, especially as she was certain he would be travelling first class and would therefore be on the upper deck. That’s if he were aboard at all. Sending a false address on her telegram had meant that she was unable to receive any confirmation.

Two long and deep blasts from the ship’s horn heralded the
Empress of Ireland
’s departure, and the shouts from the pier grew louder, until very soon the fourteen-thousand-ton ocean liner began to move. As the ship headed further out onto the St Lawrence River, and as Alice slowly followed the other passengers back inside, she felt a burst of excitement ripple through her at the thought of seeing Henry again. Had the six weeks that had passed since Holland changed him? She supposed not, unless Raskin had lied to her, and Henry had been mistreated all along. She began to worry about him again and wished it were closer to six o’clock than it was to five. That was the time she had stated on her telegram. All she had to do now was to find the grand staircase where she had said they would meet, and wait for him to show. She thought it would be easy enough to find, and she had chosen it because she supposed it would be a busy thoroughfare at any time of day. She wanted to meet Henry somewhere public in case Saxby thought to double-cross her.

As she moved into one of the oak-panelled vestibule areas, which were served by staircases connecting the decks, she thought she would go to her cabin first and ready herself for dinner, which, according to the itinerary, was to be served at seven. She wondered whether she would dine with Henry tonight, and she hoped she would. She had bought a new dress in Quebec for the voyage, something in pale blue silk she thought Henry would approve of, and she wanted to wear it for him. She smiled to herself as she entered into one of the narrow passageways that led to the cabins, thinking he would hardly recognise her in the simple, working-class clothes she had become accustomed to, and rather fond of wearing, in his absence.

As Alice ambled along and the throng of people gradually thinned, she thought about her previous voyage from Liverpool aboard the
Laurentic
. It was not as grand a liner as this, but then this was not as grand as many of the White Star Line’s flagships, such as the
Lusitania
and the ill-fated
Titanic
that had ended her maiden voyage so tragically two years before. Alice could recall each of the thirteen days she had spent aboard the
Laurentic
with great clarity, even though every new day came and went much like the last. She recalled them so well because they were not pleasant days. She had kept to herself most of the voyage, and she had passed much of her time on deck staring at the horizon and wishing she could undo everything that had happened that spring. The journey had afforded her plenty of time for reflection—plenty of time to wrestle with her demons—and she had cried herself to sleep most nights over Archie’s death. Then somewhere in the middle of the great Atlantic Ocean she found the strength to look forward—to having Henry back and seeing her children again, and to once more living the happy life she had known.

Towards the end of the voyage, she had cut her hair extra short to help disguise herself, and she’d made the acquaintance of a group of women who were returning to Quebec, having previously travelled to England as activists in support of the women’s suffrage movement. Alice had fitted right in, and once she had earned their confidence, she had spun them all a story about an abusive husband she was running away from, and how he would have people waiting for her in Quebec to take her back to him, where he would surely imprison her so that she could not run away again. Alice had gained their sympathy all too easily, and she had safely disembarked the RMS
Laurentic
in the middle of the group, cradling her belly so as to give the impression that she was heavily pregnant, when really it was her own dress she carried in a bundle beneath the clothing she had borrowed. If the authorities had seen her, there would have been little about her to recognise from any written description they might have had, and perhaps because she had been veiled by so many citizens of Canada returning home, she managed to slip through without challenge.

Alice reached her cabin, having followed the signs along several narrow passageways that were lined with handrails in case of rough seas, and she went inside. It was a small space, but it looked comfortable, and she had very little with her by way of luggage. There was a single, narrow bed with a curtain and rail, a small sink and a mirror, and a chair in the corner beneath the porthole. It would service her needs, but she didn’t expect to spend much time there, as the ship boasted a second-class music and reading room and several lounges, not to mention the promenade decks. Alice did not delay. She washed and changed, and after one last look in the mirror, she put her straw boater back on—which was something she was sure Henry would not approve of, but which she had become rather attached to—and went to find the grand staircase.

Alice caught her breath when she saw him again. She arrived at the grand staircase with its wide, sweeping oak handrails in time to see him coming down from the first-class accommodations. He wore the same light-grey sack suit and felt Homburg she had last seen him wearing in Holland, and she thought he looked well despite everything he must have been through. He began to look about as he descended the stairs, and Alice supposed he was just as excited and nervous as she was.

There was another man with him whom Alice took an immediate dislike to. He was about the same height and build as Henry, dressed in a navy-blue suit with a white flower in the lapel. Unlike Henry, who was clean shaven, the other man had a thin black moustache. Someone passed by in front of her then, blocking her view momentarily. Then once he had passed, Alice saw that Henry was looking right at her. He smiled and quickened his pace as she went to him.

‘Alice!’

They fell into each other’s arms, and he kissed her, and in that brief moment all her troubles seemed to melt away, if only for a moment.

‘Oh, Henry! I thought I would never see you again.’

‘I never doubted it,’ Henry said with that soft American accent Alice so adored. ‘You and I were meant to be.’

Alice smiled at the notion. ‘How have you been?’

‘I guess I can’t complain. They fed me well enough, and I was able to take regular exercise. Worrying about you and the children was the hard part. How are they?’

Alice didn’t want to ruin their reunion by telling Henry that Chester had been poisoned. She decided to save that for later. ‘They’re both fine,’ she said. ‘At least they were when I last saw them. That was three weeks ago now. They’re at Hamberley with my parents.’

‘Then I’m sure they’re still fine,’ Henry said. ‘I won’t ask you how you’ve been, Alice. I know all this must have hit you hardest.’ He stepped away. ‘Just look at you. Whatever have you done to your hair?’

‘It will grow back.’

‘Yes, of course it will, but I barely recognise you. You’re so thin, and your eyes . . . I don’t suppose you’ve been sleeping at all well, have you?’

Alice shook her head.

‘Well, just you let me do the worrying from now on. Until this is over with anyway—then neither of us will have to worry about a single thing again, I promise.’

The man who had arrived with Henry stepped beside him then, stopping their conversation. When he spoke, his accent reminded Alice of Raimund Drescher, the head waiter she had met in Dover. He got straight to the point.

‘Do you have the notebook?’

‘This is Herr Albrecht,’ Henry said. ‘I don’t think for a minute that’s his real name, and we’re not exactly on first-name terms. He’s from Germany, as is no doubt apparent.’ He lowered his voice then and leaned closer to Alice. ‘He’s not much of a swell, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t say much, but he’s been easy enough company so far.’

‘I don’t want him around us,’ Alice said, throwing the man a distasteful glare.

She was surprised to see that Henry only had one escort, but then again, they were aboard an ocean liner. Where could they go? And she couldn’t discount that there were not others like Albrecht aboard the
Empress
, who were not yet known to her or her husband.

‘I don’t suppose we’re going to have much say in the matter,’ Henry said. ‘Not yet anyway. Have you got this notebook he’s after?’

Alice addressed Albrecht directly. ‘I don’t have it with me,
Mr Albrech
t. I wanted to make sure my husband was safe and well first.’

‘But it is aboard the ship?’ Albrecht said.

‘Yes, of course,’ Alice replied. ‘I’ve hidden it where you won’t find it, so there’s no use searching my cabin. You shall have it as soon as I’m ready to give it to you.’

The German’s lips twisted into an amused smile, as if he knew he had no choice but to play along. ‘And when will that be, Mrs Stilwell?’

‘Once I know that no one can get on or off this ship until we reach Liverpool.’

‘But how can they?’ Henry asked. ‘I mean besides jumping overboard.’

‘The navigation pilot. Before I came aboard, I learned that he would be going ashore at Pointe-au-Père near Rimouski, when they’ll also exchange the last of the mailbags. That’s usually sometime after one o’clock in the morning.’ She turned to Albrecht. ‘And that’s when you shall have the notebook. I’ll bring it to the music and reading room on this deck at one fifteen.’