Women and Children First (39 page)

Juliette scribbled a very simple note: ‘Am in New York at the Plaza Hotel. Come as soon as possible.’ On the outside, she wrote: ‘Please deliver message to Mr Robert Graham urgently.’

Her driver took it to Robert’s house while Juliette checked in to the hotel. She twisted her engagement ring so that the stone faced in towards her palm and requested a double room, saying that her husband would join her when he could. The desk clerk agreed without question. She was so obviously pregnant that how could she be anything but married? Juliette was led up to a sumptuous room overlooking Central Park and she sat by a window to wait. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. He should be there within the hour.

She was wearing a mauve silk dress that flared outwards from the bust and she arranged the folds carefully so as to disguise her shape. He would discover her condition soon enough. If only there could be a warm embrace, perhaps a loving kiss before he noticed. She felt a little faint and, realising she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, she rang the bell for some tea and cake. Her stomach was in knots and she tried not to think about what would happen later. The evening would either bring a joyous reunion or a desperately sad break-up and she genuinely could not predict which it would be.

We were foolish to have married so soon
, she thought,
no matter the reason.
He seemed like a good man, but she hadn’t seen him in enough circumstances to judge his true character. A long engagement would have been best.

The tea came and she poured herself a cup and sipped it. The hands of the clock were moving hideously slowly, and she had finished the entire pot by half past five, along with two of the chocolate cakes they called ‘brownies’. He might just be leaving the office at that point. She peered at the street outside, where traffic came and went, occasionally stopping to deposit a passenger, but she was three floors up and couldn’t make out the figures emerging from cars below.

Perhaps if he was in a business meeting, his butler had been unable to pass on the message so far – but surely no one worked beyond five-thirty? They would have no time to get home and change for dinner. Perhaps he had stopped by his club after work. But the club must have a telephone. Surely he would get the message there? Had she made it sound urgent enough? Could it be sitting unopened on his desk at home while he sat in his club unawares?

As the minutes and hours passed, Juliette had to invent further excuses for him. She’d been hoping that they would dine together but when eight o’clock came and went, she rang the bell and asked for a light meal to be brought up to her. She didn’t want to risk eating in the dining room, where someone might recognise her and spot her condition.

‘Could you check that there are no messages for me at the front desk?’ she asked the steward who brought her food, but he came back to say there were none, and that’s when she sank into despair.

Was Robert dining out with the actress? Had he gone to watch Amy Manford appearing on stage? What did she look like? Juliette imagined her as petite and strikingly beautiful. Juliette was quite tall for a woman and felt as big as a horse. Her hair was a nondescript mousy blonde and although she was told she had rather fetching grey-green eyes, she had never been described as a beauty. If Robert chose women based on looks alone, then she would certainly lose him to Miss Amy Manford. He had said he appreciated her intelligent opinions and general knowledge, though. Were actresses clever? She had never met any and had no idea.

Outside, the sky was darkening and the gas lamps were being lit in the street below. She lay down on the bed to rest, and when it reached nine o’clock without any sign of him, she began to cry.
What had she been thinking? She should never have come to New York. Had she no pride? If he had fallen for an actress, the last thing she should be doing was humiliating herself by pursuing him.

She’d sent the driver back to their cottage so that her mother and Edna weren’t left without transport, but she decided that first thing in the morning, she would ask the hotel to arrange a car to take her back to Saratoga Springs. Once there she would write to Robert and release him from their marriage. They could claim it was never consummated and seek an annulment. Maybe her name wouldn’t be completely ruined then. Maybe she would still have a chance of finding another husband some day.

It was getting dark as Reg walked over Brooklyn Bridge. A sign read that it cost a cent for pedestrians to cross but thankfully there was no one manning the tollbooth. The gas lights of the city flickered and down below he could see some huge transatlantic liners docked in the piers. He was too far away to make out which ones they were, but he felt a tug of homesickness. Maybe he should think about going down to ask if he might work his passage home? He looked out in the direction of the ocean and shuddered. It was so vast and deep and cold, and they’d be sailing over the bodies of John and Mrs Grayling, Finbarr and Captain Smith. None of them had been found, so they were out there somewhere. He wasn’t sure he could face that.

On the other side of the bridge, he considered trying to find the address where his old shipmate Danny was staying. It would be good to see a friendly face from back home, but there was too much to explain. Besides, Danny might have moved on by now. Instead, he made his way to the Municipal Lodging House on East 25th Street, where he had stayed when the
Carpathia
docked. The superintendent recognised him and took him in without question, giving him some dinner and a bed for the night. Reg was able to have a wash and rinse off the salt water that was making his skin tight and itchy. He soaked congealed blood from his hair and carefully cleaned the wound in his scalp. His clothes had dried but were stiff with salt. There was nothing he could do about that because if he washed them they wouldn’t dry overnight. Wearing his salty nightshirt, he climbed into a bunk and fell into a deep sleep.

When Reg woke the next morning he lay in bed thinking about everything that had happened to him, and considered yet again whether he should go to the police. That’s what any law-abiding person would do, and the fact that he hadn’t done so already would surely make him seem guilty. But he was scared they wouldn’t believe him, scared that he could end up in jail.

Over breakfast, he noticed the superintendent had a newspaper on his desk and asked if he could borrow it for a few moments. He flicked through the pages, and on page five, his worst fears were realised. ‘Lovebirds steal car from boss and crash into ocean’ read the headline. The story claimed that Reg and Molly had pilfered some money from Mr Grayling and escaped in one of his cars, only to hurtle off the road at a notorious accident spot. Molly’s body had been found in the wreckage but they speculated that Reg had been swept away by the strong current. A brief sentence at the end mentioned that he was a
Titanic
survivor.

Reg sat transfixed by horror. So it was true that Molly had been in the car. She was dead and he had failed to rescue her. He was filled with rage against Mr Grayling. During all those weeks Reg had been living under the same roof as him, serving him meals and watching him drool over Miss Hamilton, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to believe he was working for a cold-blooded murderer. Now he realised his boss didn’t care what he did so long as he got his own way. Mr Grayling couldn’t risk Reg and Molly telling anyone the inconvenient truth about his conduct on the
Titanic
, so he got rid of them with as little conscience as he would shoot grouse on a country estate.

And Reg was believed to be dead again, for the second time that year. At least it meant they weren’t out hunting for him. But Molly, poor silly girl, had been found. He thought of their secret kisses and felt desperately sad for her. Her mum and that sister who worked for the Rothschilds would be in mourning. Alphonse would be upset as well. He wondered if anyone would contact his own mother back in Southampton to tell her that he had perished. She’d just have received his letter explaining he was staying in New York and then she’d get another saying he was dead – and labelled a thief to boot. No doubt she would get word to Florence. He resolved to send them both a telegram as soon as he could raise the cash.

After breakfast, Reg set out for the long walk uptown to Madison Avenue. He slipped past Sherry’s, worried in case anyone he knew would see him in such a state, dressed like a tramp in a nightshirt and salt-marked jacket, stiffened trousers and oversized canvas beach shoes. He checked any clocks he could spot through office windows along the way, and managed to arrive at the house just after one, when the staff should all be sitting down to luncheon. He crept round to the back door and made sure he could hear their voices in the kitchen before he slipped down to the cellar window, which was hidden behind a coal bunker. As usual, it was slightly ajar. He had to remove his jacket in order to squeeze through the narrow opening. His heart was pounding. If he were caught, he would tell Mr Frank the truth and throw himself on his mercy, but he didn’t greatly fancy his chances of a sympathetic hearing.

Once inside, Reg listened carefully at the cellar door before slipping up the steps into the hall, and then up the main staircase, storey by storey, to his old bedroom. There was a bulky letter for him on the bed, from the immigration department. His new papers had come through, thank goodness. He changed quickly into his spare suit, with clean socks and a shirt, and pulled on a pair of old shoes he had left in the cupboard, the ones he’d been wearing on the
Titanic
. He bundled all his other clothes into a paper carrier bag along with his passport and a few dollars he had saved for Mrs Hitchens. Before he left, he remembered Florence’s St Christopher was still in a drawer by his bedside, so he stuck it in his pocket.

Reg crept down the stairs as quietly as he could, but paused on the first floor. The door of Mr Grayling’s office was ajar and a thought came to him.
I could go to the police if I had some evidence against him, if it wasn’t just his word against mine.
He remembered how distressed Mr Grayling had seemed when he gazed inside the side drawer of the desk. Maybe there was something in there that would explain how and why his wife died. It was a long shot, but worth a try.

Still Reg couldn’t hear any movement in the rest of the house. With Mr Grayling out of town, the staff probably took a long luncheon. He tiptoed into the office. The almanac was on the same shelf and, tucked inside the flyleaf, he found a small key. He turned it in the lock of the side drawer and slid it open. Inside there was a bundle of letters addressed to ‘Mr George Grayling’ and a small cloth bag.

As he lifted the bag, he could feel there was a key inside. He opened it and knew straight away what it was before reading the engraving on it: B78. It was the key to the Graylings’ suite on the
Titanic
.

Why would he have thought to bring that with him when everyone was rushing to the lifeboats? Passengers never locked their doors on cruise ships. Did Mr Grayling really stop to worry about the risk of theft while the
Titanic
was sinking? That hardly seemed plausible. He must have locked the door because Mrs Grayling was lying in bed, either unconscious or already dead, and he didn’t want her to be found. The sinking of the
Titanic
had been extremely convenient for him. He’d hit her over the head, just as he’d done with Reg, but he didn’t have to risk being caught when he tossed her body overboard because he could just let her go down with the ship. It was almost the perfect crime.

A line from a Sherlock Holmes story came into his head: ‘Every murderer makes at least one mistake.’ Mr Grayling might have thought he’d got away with it, but he should never have kept the key. That gave Reg enough evidence to go to the police.

He slipped the letters and cabin key into his carrier bag, relocked the drawer, replaced the almanac, then crept down the stairs to the cellar and back out through the window. No one in the house heard a thing.