Touched by Angels (22 page)

She grew restless
and began prowling the ship, above and below, looking from face to face, not caring a damn about acid looks or any restrictions she met below decks.

The stewards took one look at her face and seemed to know better than to argue. She wasn’t sure what she would do if she found him, though she knew if she did, it wasn’t wise to shout and scream. She would find a quiet corner and keep a still tongue while she planned and schemed.

Lil
looked at some of the men so closely and sometimes for so long, her gaze seemed to make them feel uneasy. She had left Robert under supervision with the other children, to give herself more freedom, after he had been told, on pain of death, to keep his mouth shut about the money.

She hunted everywhere
and slowly began to accept that he may have perished after all. She never did see Philips or the Strauses.

Night time came.

As it wore on, most of the men slept in the smoking rooms, or even on deck, while the more numerous women were offered the co-use of berths by
Carpathia
’s
passengers. Exhausted by her fruitless search, Lil slept through the whole of that night in one of the staterooms, a luxury afforded her because she had a child.

Soon after daybreak, they found their way to the dining saloon, where dozens had already gathered to weep and pray about the misery that had befallen them.

Having had enough, she left them to it and took Robert up on deck, where they stood at the rail, seeing the distant sky darkening.

The wind was freshening too, so they knew they were riding into a storm.

Robert said, as he gripped her hand hard, “You said God has decided to punish us.”

She looked down into his eyes
and whispered, “Yes,” before gazing out to sea again.

He he
ld the rail with his other hand and added, “When will he stop?”

“
I don’t know!” Then she gritted her teeth in bitterness and regret. “Maybe never.”

As the hours passed, they thought they had missed the storm, until it hit them savagely shortly before midnight, tossing and shaking the small ship like a cork.

Sometimes the lights would go out briefly, bringing screaming, as memories of the sinking,
bright enough as they were, came alive like freshly lanced boils. Then they would flicker on again and people, already huddled together in their fear, whimpered and screamed as lightning lit everything up in dazzling blue-white bites. The bangs that followed made them jump.

The tempest held them in its grip until about three in the morning, when it lifted only briefly, before returning with doubled ferocity.

The
older survivors were trying to convince everyone they had brought their curse with them, certain that where the iceberg had failed, the squall would finish the job.

The storm raged through Wednesday and Thursday too, compounding their misery with a fog so thick, it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead.

Continuous pounding rain kept all but the most resolute inside, who were driven out only by the stench of vomit.

The foghorn kept howling too, to warn other ships of their presence, increasing the hysteria on board.

It was not until late that afternoon before Captain Rostron, himself weakened, and wanting nothing more than to be on dry land, was relieved to be told the foghorn could be heard off Fire Island.

Lil was half dozing, as she sat at a baize-covered table, strewn with cards and empty whisky glasses, long ago abandoned by the men. Robert sat beside her, his head buried in his arms.

With their money now seemingly gone forever, she had been thinking about what they should do, when she glimpsed a familiar face passing the porthole on the far side.

She felt joy and rage all in one, knowing that with disembarkation imminent, the thief had been forced out of hiding. There was no disguise whatsoever, though he looked extremely pale and drawn. There was a swatch of black, maybe grease, across his right cheek. His centre parting was gone.

She realised now how he had managed to elude her for the past three days. He had stowed away, knowing damn well she would be on the prowl, in some nook where nobody would ever think of looking; perhaps the engine room, which would explain the grease mark.

It wasn’t hard to imagine how terrible it must have been, with the incessant noise and fumes and the tossing of the storm. Considering the amount of money at stake though, he had probably thought the wretchedness worth it.

She looked out of the porthole again, this time past him, at the wild land of America, knowing that in it there were no Marquess of Queensberry Rules. The time had come to cast aside the gloves, as he had, and throw away any notions of fair play.

Whatever it took, she would not be beaten again.

He was wrapp
ed against the chill in a great thick coat, with the same striped suitcase clutched in his hand. He had not tried to disguise it, perhaps thinking that doing so was even more likely to draw attention. The first chance he had, he would bolt, and in the confusion, there would be nothing she could do about it.

She knew it was a waste of time approaching the police, who, according to English newspapers, were very corrupt here.

The only possible solution came when her eyes lit upon a tough-looking man standing nearby. Half a head above the pink chinless faces and potbellies surrounding him, he gazed at the world from under a wide brimmed hat, through narrow green eyes. Cigar smoke trickled lazily from his lips. Stubble covered his face. The butt of a gun poked from under a long blue jacket, and behind that, a fancy waistcoat and bootlace tie.

Truth be told, she didn’t like the look of him one bit, but there was so little time. It was this or nothing.

She whispered quickly in Robert’s ear, knowing the part she should play for greater appeal and plausibility. “You are the son of a lord, all right?”

“
Eh?”

He looked up. He too looked at her as if she was delirious.

“
Ssshh. You want the money back
, don’t you?”

“
Course I do.”

“
Then follow my lead. Call him Sir. Shake his hand. Talk nicely. You know what to do.”

She tugged his forearm, sidled over, and said, in a more enunciated voice than usual, “I’m sorry for staring. It’s just that I’ve not spoken to anybody since…”

He nodded to show he understood
and regarded them evenly.

“
Your son?”

“
Yes.”

She held Robert by his shoulders and pinched one of them lightly in prompt. He glanced up.

She sighed as she glared at him, embarrassed.

He said, a little parrot-like, “Oh… it’s a pleasure to meet you,” adding, “Sir,” as she pinched him again.

Perplexed, he held out his hand, and the man shook it smiling.

“
And you are?”

“
Lady Emma DeVere.”

She kicked Robert lightly on the ankle, as she saw his head suddenly turn.

“
And this is Robert DeVere, sole heir to the family fortune, since his father, Major General Oliver De Vere, was killed at Ladysmith, fighting the Boers.”

“
I see. My condolences. My name is Jackson Quint. Why are you visiting America?”

“
To start a new life. But…”

She let her eyes drop to the swaying deck, as
Carpathia
eased into the Cunard pier.

“
It’s so humiliating. To have been so stupid, to have let my guard drop. I thought, as I expect you did, that Englishmen were gentlemen but…”

“
What happened?”

Robert piped up without warning, “Some bastard nicked all our lolly!”

She cringed, though after managing a polite laugh, and construing the term ‘lolly’, she explained that her son had, unfortunately, been in contact with the steerage passengers.

As the gangplank was being lowered, she said quietly, “I had intended that as little attention be drawn to us as possible, but I suppose in view of what has happened, we
are
desperate. Helpless too. What my son told you is true. Since the sale of the family seat in Berkshire, all our worldly goods are in the suitcase the thief carries, mostly cash and jewellery. He stole it from us as the ship was sinking. As of now, we are penniless, with not even the means to escape back home.”

She saw the thief, hopping impatiently from foot to foot as he waited, stuck behind a man with bandaged feet being carried slowly from the ship.

Then, just as he reached the pier, a man with a camera stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder.

Lil heard him say, “I’m John Gleason, Sir,
Hartford Times.
Have you a story for me?”

As he was trying to blather his way out, she said quickly to Quint, “He’s the man who took our money. It’s in the suitcase. Help me get it back and there will be a reward.”

She noticed Quint watching the man
the whole time, as if absorbing as much detail as he could.

The thief
must have guessed he was being watched, as she saw him snap something at the reporter, before stalking off, inside the pier itself where everything was lit by huge spot lights.

***

Quint ran after him, fully aware that Lady DeVere, if that
was
her real title, could be lying through her teeth. They were on his heels as he gave chase.

The thief was almost running by now, as he charged through the crowd, pushing people out of the way.

By now, as Quint followed him out onto the road, where thousands had gathered, the man took off in the rain, down the road and into the docks.

Quint followed, scared the police might be on his tracks.

“
Stay where you are,” he shouted. He pulled his revolver from under his jacket, as the man ran into the jungle of concrete and iron that Quint knew like the back of his hand.

***

Lil soon stopped running, her hands on her knees, as she panted for breath. A stitch dug like a hot blade in
her side. Her ankle-length dress and block heels were not conducive to running anyway, and she didn’t like the look of the place Quint had given chase into.

“
Mum, come on!”

“
No!” There was a coppery taste at the back of her throat. “We’ll… we’ll wait… He’ll be back.”

She
could only stand and watch, as she saw a hazy outline of Quint against distant lights. She was sure they would never see their money again.

Quint stopped
and listened hard, as rain trickled from the front of his hat.

There was a dead end ahead, with derelict warehouses to his left and a tall wall extending right across to where it ended, twenty feet above the icy water of the Hudson River.

The man was trapped, unless he jumped, which would be as good as suicide. After the scuttling of rats had stopped, he could hear the soft patter of rain, and the low whistle of the wind, as it streamed through shattered windows and broken roof slates.

The vigil went on for another quarter hour, until he saw a dark shape skulking along, low against the dim distant lights of New Jersey, stopping every so often.

He was weari
ng a long coat that was swinging pendulously, as if heavy.

Quint made his way diagonally across,
quickly, to be ahead, so he could intercept him. As he grabbed the collar of his coat, the man gave a terrified squawk as Quint drew back the hammer on his gun.

Quint
watched him gazing along the long barrel of the weapon, pressed against the skin between his eyes, and when he gasped, “Have it, for God’s sake! Just let me go, please,” Quint frowned, having not expected such quick and easy compliance, even if allowances
were
made for his gun.

As his eyes flicked sideways to where he could see the suitcase being lowered to the ground, he said, “You’d better get running, and if you do anything dumb, like telling the cops, believe me, I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you.”

“
I won’t, honest, just…” He bolted.

Quint grinned as he heard him trip, followed by a splashing sound and cursing, as he sprawled face first in a puddle. He lowered the hammer on his gun and slid it back into its holster, as he looked around to be sure that apart from the writhing form in the wet, he was still alone.

Easy pickings
, he thought, as he undid the two straps holding the suitcase shut. It was too dark to make the contents out and he daren’t light a match, for fear of being seen. He groped around inside, and although half expecting it, cursed as he felt nothing but layer after layer of clothing.

He was about to threaten the thief again, but then, remembering that his coat had looked ridiculously heavy, he had another idea.