The Titanic Enigma (16 page)

Fortescue was not one of them. He had been a member of the Harrow sailing club and then a leading light in the Cambridge rowing team that had gone on to win the 1900 boat race by a
staggering twenty lengths. He loved the water.

The ship had sailed from Southampton to Cherbourg, a five-hour voyage across the English Channel, to pick up 274 more passengers. From there, steaming through the night, the
Titanic
headed north-west bound for Queenstown near Cobh on the south coast of Ireland. The ship had dropped anchor at 11.30 the following morning, taken on the final 120 passengers and raised
the Stars and Stripes above her deck, signifying the next port of call was New York harbour. By early afternoon the giant liner had slipped out into the Atlantic Ocean.

It was now Friday evening and Fortescue felt more relaxed than he had done for a long time. He had been both inspired and weighed down by the responsibility placed upon him; now the
heaviness on his shoulders was lifting and he was beginning to enjoy himself. And as his mind quietened, he felt energized. Alone in his cabin with a very good claret, he sat at a compact mahogany
desk with a sheaf of paper from the drawer and his favourite fountain pen. He had brought his notes from Manchester and found that his mind was wonderfully receptive to picking up the theoretical
threads where he had left them before leaving the university.

From the early days of the work on atomic energy he had felt that he and Rutherford were merely scratching at the surface of a vast, barely imagined world of knowledge. At times he
visualized them as children unlocking a Pandora’s box or stepping into some vast spectral land yet still only glimpsing one tiny corner of it. However, during the past few weeks he had sensed
that he really was onto something tangible, something he could grasp.

But then, alone in the quiet cold of his flat in Manchester, the doubts had begun. Clouded by nervous tension over the task ahead of him, he had retreated intellectually, the
self-questioning becoming more intrusive. Was he deluding himself? Was he chasing phantoms? Had he fooled himself into believing in a theory a better man would have instantly realized as wrong? His
equations felt correct instinctively and that was half the battle, and the early experimental successes were irrefutable. The equations were also very beautiful and that proved to him that he was
on the right path, but something was holding him back. There was still something missing.

He ran the equations through his mind again. They did not quite tally.

Then he saw it, or thought he saw it. Juggling half a dozen different expressions in his mind simultaneously, he changed a negative to a positive and rearranged a set of symbols in
the next row. But no, it still eluded him. He took a sip of wine, letting it roll around his mouth sensuously. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the extra terms and the three or four other
equations he would need to bring into the picture.

After a moment he managed to assemble them on the page in front of him and trawl through them one at a time, checking each term, every mathematical symbol. Then, he had it. The fifth
equation was wrong – the power was squared instead of cubed and he needed a new term on the right. He made the changes and appraised the outcome. It worked. He pressed on, applying the new
result in the next row of equations and they too all fell into place like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

What he had visualized was, he knew, the essence of an incredibly powerful and totally original way of thinking about energy. It was simple, pure, complete and irrefutably
true.

But there was more, so much more. He knew it instinctively, but as he reached to grab it, it slipped away. Fortescue let out a sigh. He had experienced this before. A thought, a
stray strand of an idea, a tiny thread that could be unravelled into something immense . . . it was there, but not there. He could see it, yet it was invisible.

He couldn’t give up, not now. He tried to pull the ideas back. They moved further away. He tried harder to ensnare the elusive concept, pull it to him, but no, it was
dissolving, melting to nothing.

He took a deep breath and slumped in the chair. ‘You will return to me,’ he whispered. He stood up and changed for dinner.

*

He did not see another soul until he reached the main hallway leading to the First Class Dining Saloon on D-Deck and a group of passengers heading towards him. They
made a stylish foursome: the women wore similar formal dresses, one black, the other white; the men had dressed just as he had done in black bow tie and dinner suit, hair slicked back. The older of
the two men had a cane. Fortescue nodded to them politely and made his way to the reception area

It was a large room, white pillars breaking up the space, the ceiling heavily patterned with elegant white reliefs. The spotless carpet was a pleasing red, subtly patterned to
reflect the shapes embossed into the ceiling. Wicker chairs and chaises longues had been placed in clusters around the room with little drinks tables between them. There were perhaps a score of
passengers seated drinking and chatting animatedly in pairs and small groups.

Fortescue found an unoccupied table some way from the nearest party and almost before he had taken his seat a liveried waiter appeared at his elbow. The man was wearing a brilliant
white uniform with highly polished brass buttons, the emblem of the cruise company over his left breast. Fortescue ordered a gin and tonic and sat back to admire the surroundings and noticed at a
table a few yards away the attractive young couple he had seen when he had boarded the ship. The woman stole a glance his way.

From the pocket of his dinner jacket, he withdrew a slender volume, Milton’s
Areopagitica
. He lit a cigarette then, taking a sip of his drink, he began to read the
book. A few moments later he lowered it and stretched out his arm to place his glass on a delicate drinks mat. The two strangers were standing in front of him. He quickly lifted himself out of his
seat.

‘I do beg your pardon,’ the woman said with a friendly smile. She had a lace-gloved hand extended.

Fortescue looked from the woman to her companion and then took the lady’s hand, turned and shook the man’s hand.

‘My brother and I were discussing you,’ the woman went on.

‘Oh?’

She produced a small laugh. ‘That came out badly.’ She had a faint accent.

‘That’s a relief.’

‘What my sister means, sir, is that we spend an inordinate amount of time trying to ascertain who our fellow travellers might be and why they are aboard. You may tell we do not
have enough to occupy us!’ He had a deep, musical voice with a similar accent to his sister but slightly more pronounced.

‘I apologize again,’ the woman said. ‘Allow me to introduce ourselves. My name is Frieda Schiel and this is my brother Marcus. We are from
Switzerland.’

‘It’s a great pleasure,’ Fortescue replied. ‘My name is Wickins, John Wickins. Please do take a seat.’ He indicated two chairs the other side of the
table and called over a waiter.

They each ordered drinks.

‘So, please,’ Marcus began as the waiter retreated, ‘if you do not mind, may we give you our judgement?’

Fortescue looked puzzled.

‘As to who we think you are and why you are aboard?’ Frieda added.

Ah, yes . . . please do.’

‘We concluded you are either a writer or a painter; definitely a man with artistic proclivities,’ Frieda said earnestly. ‘And we believe you are travelling to
America because a close relative has died and you need to organize the estate.’

Fortescue nodded sagely. ‘Well,’ he replied. ‘I’m afraid you are wrong on both counts.’

‘Oh dear,’ Marcus responded and looked forlornly at his sister.

‘The truth is desperately prosaic,’ Fortescue added. ‘I’m simply visiting my father, a businessman in New York whom I have not seen for five years. I’m
actually a barrister. Now it is your turn. What do you do and why are you aboard?’

Frieda took a sip of her wine. ‘I am an actress,’ she said.

Fortescue raised an eyebrow. ‘My goodness. You are the first actress I have ever met. I’m most impressed.’

‘My brother is a writer and film director. We are travelling to Hollywood.’

Fortescue was shaking his head. ‘I’m overwhelmed! I have read about the nickel theatres.’

‘Nickelodeons.’

‘Yes, that is right. I thought I might visit one when I reach New York. Now I definitely shall. And you plan to emigrate?’

Frieda glanced at her brother and they both nodded. ‘We have become famous and successful in Switzerland,’ Marcus said. ‘But it is not exactly the centre of the
moving-picture world. If we are to grow artistically, we need to be where the action is, as our American cousins would say.’

Fortescue laughed. ‘How jolly exciting’

They finished their drinks and found a table in the Main Dining Saloon. This was said to be the largest room afloat, and it was indeed impressive, stretching the entire width of the
ship across D-Deck. In fact, it was too big-its few dozen diners sat lost amidst the splendid array of white-linen-topped tables and green velvet upholstered chairs that together could accommodate
five hundred. A team of waiters wafted around, decidedly under-employed.

The meal itself certainly lived up to the glowing reviews Fortescue had read in the newspapers. He ordered oysters followed by filet mignon Lili with chateau potatoes, while the
young pair ordered lamb with mint sauce, creamed carrots, topped off with Waldorf pudding for dessert.

After the meal the men drank port and brandy and smoked cigars while Frieda sipped a black coffee; then Marcus suggested he turn in, leaving Egbert alone with the actress. They saw
the young man off to the lifts that would take him to B-Deck where they had neighbouring rooms.

‘You two are very close,’ Fortescue said as he and Frieda returned to the reception area.

‘We always have been. We are only a year apart. I’m the elder one.’

And your parents?’

‘They died when I was eighteen – a boating accident.’

‘I am sorry.’

She waved a hand between them. ‘It was almost six years ago. It drew Marcus and me closer.’

And now you work together and have planned a career in the New World.’

‘Yes.’

Fortescue raised his brandy glass. ‘To your future.’

‘Thank you, Mr Wickins. And now, I really must retire too.’

They rose unsteadily just as the ship pitched a little more than normal. Frieda started to fall and Fortescue just managed to find her arm to steady her. She came up close to him and
he caught her aroma: a heady, expensive perfume.

‘Goodness!’ Frieda exclaimed, turning to face Fortescue only inches from him. ‘I thought I had my sea legs. I blame it on the champers!’

Fortescue smiled and the woman stepped back. ‘Perhaps we should clear our heads with a stroll on deck,’ Egbert suggested. ‘What do you say?’

‘I would like that very much.’

They took the Grand Staircase up to the First Class promenade on A-Deck. An attendant at the exit placed a merino wool shawl about Frieda’s shoulders and she pulled it tight
over her flimsy cocktail dress. Fortescue joked that after Manchester in winter, the Atlantic wind held no horrors for him and they stepped out together into the night, the wooden deck illuminated
by the lights of the ship, man-made brightness set against the star-filled expanse overhead.

They did not see another passenger as they walked slowly towards the bow. Barely visible in the dark stood the great funnels churning out smoke into the Atlantic air. The boilermen
never stopped working; the engines kept going night and day. From beyond the railings they could hear the sweeping, splashing water against the steel hull.

Soon they were passing close to the wheelhouse and the bridge which stood one level above them on what was called the boat deck. Not far ahead stood the bow mast with the
crow’s nest perched halfway up. They could just discern the white cage and a flicker of a blue uniform.

‘I still can’t quite take in the magnificence of this ship,’ Frieda said as they reached the forward railing and looked out to the dark vista, a wall of blackness
in which the precise line of the horizon could only be guessed at.

‘Yes,’ Fortescue replied. ‘It is something very special indeed.’

‘Do you ever feel scared by it?’

Fortescue gave her a puzzled look and tilted his head slightly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you not feel it is rather conceited? An act that is rather presumptuous?’