The Titanic Enigma (17 page)

‘Presumption towards whom? Neptune?’ Fortescue retorted with a grin.

But Frieda looked at him seriously. ‘I think it is arrogant of us tiny human beings to build this Leviathan.’

Fortescue was startled for a moment. He was used to miracles. He had performed some himself. But then again, he could understand what Frieda was saying. He knew that some people
questioned the right of scientists such as himself to probe what they considered ‘God’s domain’, but he could not now talk of such things – it was hardly the preserve of a
barrister.

‘What an extraordinary notion!’ he said. ‘Are you sure it should be referred to as a Leviathan, Fräulein Schiel? That would imply the
Titanic
is a
monster. I see it as entirely benign, our servant; a beast of burden perhaps, but a truly magnificent one.’

‘Possibly’ Frieda replied and shivered.

‘You’re cold.’

‘It’s nothing. Manchester may be cold, but Switzerland is colder.’ They both laughed.

‘So, when you arrive in New York you still have a very long journey ahead of you,’ Fortescue said.

A week by train to the west coast.’

‘Even so, I envy you.’

She turned and surveyed his face with her brown eyes. ‘I don’t think for a moment that it will be easy. Being a star in Switzerland is one thing but, well, I was a big
fish in a very small pond. The film studios in Hollywood make many films, but there are also many starlets and hopefuls. I’ve been told that the vast majority of aspiring actresses end up
waiting tables. But my brother and I will try our best.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ Fortescue commented. ‘And now I think we ought to get you inside before you freeze to death.’

They walked back at a faster pace. Fortescue was chilled to the bone. They dived inside at the first opportunity and followed a wide corridor down to the landing around the forward
Grand Staircase. From there they descended one flight to B-Deck and stopped at the foot of the stairs.

‘Well, thank you,’ Frieda said.

‘For what?’

‘For saving me when I almost injured myself earlier, Mr Wickins.’ Then she produced a faintly mischievous smile.

And thank you for an enchanting evening,’ Fortescue replied. He shook Frieda’s hand and watched as she turned towards the corridor leading away to her
cabin.

Fortescue opened his eyes to see a beam of bright white light coming through the porthole, dust motes floating in their thousands. He felt a sharp stab of a
headache and remembered how much he had drunk with Frieda and her brother, then turned over and went back to sleep.

By afternoon, he felt a little better and ordered room service – a fulsome meal of egg, sausage, bacon and pints of strong coffee which served to sweep away the last vestiges
of his hangover and tiredness, allowing his mind to wander where it should: into the realms of theory and mathematical abstraction. So, at his desk alone with coffee and brandy as well as a pair of
fine cigars, he pushed forward his thinking on the new atomic theory he had begun in Manchester.

He knew he had to note down everything, write out everything and keep meticulous records of his reasoning because he planned to have them couriered to Rutherford as soon as
Titanic
docked in New York. Out here in the middle of the Atlantic he felt cut off from his usual academic network, but also sure of himself and aware that what he was developing was beautiful
and true. Even so, it would be good to have a second pair of eyes, afresh mind such as Ernest Rutherford’s, to offer a different perspective. He always valued the older man’s opinions
and contributions. With this work there could be no room for error – the fate of nations depended upon it.

RMS
Titanic
had been at sea for two and a half days. They were now over 1,200 miles west of Queenstown and, according to the daily bulletins posted on the First Class
promenade, averaging an impressive twenty-one knots. So far, everything had been smooth sailing: the weather superb, the giant ship domed by clear blue sky and surrounded by calm
ocean.

Fortescue checked his watch. It was 6.05 p.m., an hour before dinner. He made a snap decision, called up the butler in charge of his corridor, ordered dinner in his room, pulled on
his overcoat and walked towards the promenade.

He could not get the equations out of his mind. At his desk he had been concentrating on the page of notation in front of him so long the figures had started to distort. He had
reached a dead end in his thinking.

Out on the promenade the mathematics would not fade away; the numbers kept tumbling through his mind. He sat down on a bench, his back against cold metal. There was a porthole a few
feet away and he could hear music spilling from the room behind it. He guessed he was outside one of the First Class drawing rooms and then remembered there was a Mozart quartet booked to play
between six and seven o’clock. He recognized the piece: the Allegretto from ‘Klavierkonzerte No. 25’.

He pulled out a pencil from the top pocket of his coat and began to search for a piece of paper. Checking his jacket and finding nothing, he rummaged through his trouser pockets and
in his back pocket was a folded page from the desk drawer in his cabin. Leaning forward, paper on knee, he licked the tip of the pencil and began to scribble.

Instantly the outside world dissolved. He could no longer hear the waves lapping against the hull of the ship. The almost subliminal throb of the engines was stilled. He wrote a
single line, then stopped, the pencil poised over the paper. Another line came, followed by a third. He started to feel the familiar buzz of expectation, a thrill running along his spine as he
jotted down a fourth line, a fifth, and the equations began to intermesh. ‘Yes,’ he said under his breath. ‘Yes . . .’

The gust of wind was totally unexpected and Fortescue was so absent from the real world he had no chance of stopping the paper slipping from his knee. It was caught in a vortex of
air and flew away over the deck.

Jumping up, he tried to grab the paper, but grasped nothing but ocean breeze. The scrap of notes slipped further away, towards the deck and then up again. Fortescue swung left then
right and tried again to catch the paper. He was so lost in concentration he did not see a young boy leap out from behind a bulkhead, dash across the promenade and snatch up the paper. Almost
colliding with the child, he tripped and fell to the deck.

‘You all right, mister?’ the kid asked, helping Fortescue to his feet.

Egbert peered at the boy holding the paper out towards him.

‘Just caught it,’ the kid said proudly and gazed at the symbols for a second.

The boy was small and pale. Fortescue guessed he could have been twelve or thirteen, but looked younger because of his size. He had an intelligent, pleasing face, but his clothes
were too big for him, the baggy trousers worn through at the knees and the tatty jacket stained. The boy gave Fortescue an uncertain gappy smile.

Egbert took the paper from him. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

The boy looked around. The promenade was empty. ‘Billy. Billy O’Donnell.’ He had a strong Irish accent.

‘Well, Billy, I am extremely grateful.’ He pulled a thru-penny piece from his trouser pocket and handed it to him. ‘My name is John
Wickins.’

Billy took it. ‘Thanking you, sir. Looked like some strange mathematics,’ he added and flicked a hand towards the paper.

Fortescue produced a small laugh. ‘It is indeed, Billy.’

‘Don’t look like no maths I ever saw. I love numbers and stuff.’

‘Do you?’ Fortescue said. ‘Well, there are far worse things to study. I’m very keen on maths myself. I teach it.’

‘You’re in First Class and you’re a teacher!’ Billy exclaimed, then stopped himself. ‘Meaning no disrespect, but . . .’

Fortescue was grinning. He liked this boy – he had character. Touching the side of his nose, he said: ‘Rich daddy.’ And he gave Billy an indulgent wink. ‘So
you’re good at school then?’

Billy exhaled loudly through his nose. ‘Ain’t been to school for over a year. Nah. I taught meself to read and write and I found a book of mathematics. I brought it with
me on the ship. Actually, I nicked it from the library.’ He pulled a face.

Fortescue shook his head slowly. ‘I wouldn’t go announcing that to the world, my lad. So, what are you doing here?’

Billy looked around again nervously. ‘Exploring,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Fortescue raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, your secret is safe with me. One good turn, deserves . . .’

The boy had heard a sound and shot a sideways look along the deck. He held a finger to his lips. Fortescue glanced down the promenade and saw a man in a blue uniform. The officer was
lifting a tarpaulin and flashing a torch beneath it. He recognized him as Herbert Pitman, the ship’s Third Officer, a short, muscular fellow with a finely chiselled jaw and full
moustache.

Billy scrambled away behind the same bulkhead from which he had appeared a few minutes earlier. At that moment, Pitman looked up, lowered his torch and flicked it off. Then he strode
along the deck towards Fortescue.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he said as he came close.

‘Lost something, Mr Pitman?’

The officer flicked his head back and rolled his eyes. ‘Some little brat from Third is sneaking around First. I’ve already had complaints from two of the lady passengers.
You haven’t seen anything?’

Fortescue shook his head and caught a glimpse of Billy peeking around the bulkhead immediately behind Pitman and pulling a comical face to try to impersonate the rather starchy
officer.

‘No, I haven’t,’ the scientist said. ‘But I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.’

‘Well, you have a very pleasant evening, sir,’ Pitman replied. He touched the brim of his hat and proceeded along the deck. Fortescue looked up to the bulkhead but Billy
had gone.

He suddenly felt cold, checked his watch and realized he ought to get back to the cabin before the food arrived. Fortescue smiled and doffed his hat to a pair of middle-aged ladies
as he passed through the doors into the reception area. They were wrapped up with hats and scarves and walking along the corridor leading towards the bow. He began to feel hungry.

An exquisitely attired gentleman approached; a much younger woman had her arm interlocked with his. Fortescue recognized them from the newspapers. It was the American business mogul
Benjamin Guggenheim, heir to one of the world’s largest fortunes. The woman was an actress named Léontine Aubart. They had created quite a stir on board due to the fact that
Guggenheim, a married man of almost fifty, was accompanied by a woman half his age and known to be his mistress.

Fortescue hadn’t cared a jot about the gossip, but it was unavoidable, the talk of the ship. He stood to one side to let the couple pass. They had just drawn parallel when
Guggenheim stopped, turned, and to Fortescue’s utter astonishment, extended a hand. ‘Mr Wickins, is it not?’

‘Er, yes,’ Fortescue responded. He could not disguise his surprise. ‘Mr Guggenheim.’

The American dipped his head ever so slightly. ‘This is my friend, Miss Aubart.’ The lady offered her hand.

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ Fortescue said politely.

‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr Wickins,’ Guggenheim said.

‘You have?’

‘Indeed. That wonderful Swiss brother and sister team, the Schiels, could not have praised you more!’

‘Oh, well . . . that is nice to hear.’

‘You would have had your invitation by now . . . no?’

‘Invitation?’

‘To the soirée tonight?’

‘Ah, yes . . . sorry,’ he lied. ‘Indeed, I’m greatly looking forward to it.’

Guggenheim smiled. ‘See you there, my friend.’

Fortescue nodded and strode on, bemused.

*

What looked like the invitation to the soirée had been slipped under the door, but there was something else; he sensed immediately that someone had been in
his cabin while he was out. It was not the steward with the food. If he had received no reply, he would have either left the tray outside or taken it back to the kitchen.

The cabin looked almost exactly as he had left it, but there were some subliminal changes that had triggered his suspicions. He checked the safe under his bed, flicked through the
combination and opened the door. The boxes were there. Using a letter opener from the desk, he gingerly unlatched the smaller container holding the isotope. It was untouched and he quickly flicked
back the latch and locked it. Then he checked that his precious briefcase was there too. Everything was in order. There was no copy of the combination number anywhere – and there was no way
to open the safe without it.