The Titanic Murders (23 page)

During the day, however, the white walls combined with the many-paned high windows, including a bay window onto the sea, so blindingly suffused the room with light, its designated purpose—reading and writing—was made moot. Thus the chamber was little used, and after dark, when the First-Class passengers were dining or attending the nightly concert, the room lay as abandoned as a mining-camp ghost town.

So it was with little difficulty that Futrelle—with Captain Smith’s sanction—secured the room for a private affair, a unique event, for a very select and honored list of guests: a séance.

Just before nine
P.M.,
Futrelle, still dressed in his formal clothes from dinner, his stomach rather nervously trying to digest the latest parade of delicacies bestowed by the First-Class Dining Saloon, wandered about the room, setting the stage. He
had been, in his professional life, only three things, and two of them were different branches of the same tree: reporter and fiction writer.

But his other job had been those two years in Virginia, running that repertory company—managing a theater, mounting productions, casting and even writing the plays himself. That was his common bond with his friend Henry B. Harris; and, with Henry’s help, he would again stage an effective show.

Helping him prepare the room for his production was May, emerald earrings glittering, resplendent in a high-waisted black lace dinner gown, the low neckline and white corsage emphasizing the swell of her bosom, a matching corsage in her hair. With tapering fingers tucked into the long white gloves that began where her short-tiered black lace sleeves ended, she was drawing closed the dark curtains on one of the many windows.

“Oh Jack,” she said, gliding to the next window, “I haven’t been this nervous since the opening night of
The Man from Japan.
”

“If it goes well, do you suppose Henry will want to purchase the cinema rights?”

With some effort, Futrelle pushed a large, heavy round oak table into the center of the room, to accommodate the ten people who would be seated here, in just a few minutes. Already, with the drapes closed, the room was darkening into a more appropriate setting for mystical doings.

“How can you joke?” she asked, approaching him. She was pale, and even trembling a little. “Aren’t you frightened?”

“There’s nothing to be frightened about.”

“How about, unmasking a murderer?”

“That may not happen. If, in fact, we have a cold-blooded, premeditating killer in our midst, there may be no reaction at all.”

“Oh, Jack, I’m suddenly cold. Hold me.”

And he did, tight, whispering in her ear, “There’s no danger, darling. After all, this is the safest ship on the ocean.”

She drew away enough to arch an eyebrow at him. “The two men in cold storage may have a different opinion.”

As usual, she had a point; but he felt confident that he knew which of his guests tonight would reveal guilt, and similarly sure that the individual in question would not react violently.

The most violent reaction he’d received had come, predictably, from the most indispensable guest: William T. Stead.

“Are you suggesting,” Stead had bellowed, the sky-blue eyes wide with indignation, “that I submit my good name, my untarnished reputation as a medium, to the conducting of a fraudulent séance?”

“I am,” Futrelle said, “but for a worthy cause.”

Futrelle had been admitted to the parlor of C89, Stead’s suite, the layout of which was identical to the Futrelles’ own, though the furnishings were Queen Anne, a delicate setting for the rumpled grizzly bear within. Stead had converted the sitting room to a study; the table and floor were littered with galley proofs, foolscap filled with longhand, and wadded-up balls of discarded paper.

Stead’s chin jutted, the white-thicket beard held high, extending like a pennant. “No cause is worth my reputation, sir. These are my religious beliefs you’re asking me to betray, no, verily to
prostitute
!”

Futrelle remained calm. “You may have noticed, Mr. Stead, the absence of Mr. Crafton in our presence in recent days.”

“A blessing.”

“No—a murder.”

And Stead’s wide eyes hardened, then narrowed, and softened, and soon the two men were seated on the sofa, as Futrelle revealed his intentions, and his plans.

“I am your servant, sir,” Stead said quietly, even humbly. He shook his big shaggy head. “But at least it does explain something that’s vexed me about this voyage.”

“What would that be?”

“The many warnings I’ve had.”

“I don’t follow you, sir.”

He shrugged. “Several friends… two extraordinary psychics, and a most respected clergyman… independently warned that danger awaited me on the sea, in April. None of them knew I intended travel, yet two specifically indicated I should avoid any trip to the Americas. These feelings of foreboding they shared indicated I would meet danger, even death, on the
Titanic…
and now I have.”

“Why, with your belief in such things, did you still book passage?”

“The president of your United States requested that I attend a peace conference; I could not refuse.” He laughed heartily. “Messages from the invisible world are not Marconi ’grams—they require interpretation, Mr. Futrelle, and I am not about to live my life by assuming the worst, and by capitulating to fear.”

With Stead’s participation, lining up the rest of the guests was, for the most part, child’s play. The man may have had the grooming of a shipwreck victim crawled to shore, but W. T. Stead was a famous fellow, one of the best-known journalists on either side of the pond, and sitting at one of his séances would make an irresistible anecdote for the likes of Astor, Guggenheim,
Straus and Maggie Brown, all of whom said yes more or less instantly. So did Ismay, who did not begin to suspect the real purpose of the evening.

The trickiest invitation was Alice Cleaver.

Futrelle had determined not to inform the nanny’s employers of her criminal background—not just yet, anyway. He had observed her with the Allison children and she had been a good and gentle nurse; there was no reason to suspect that she might snap and turn violent on the tykes, no call to think she might—like Jekyll into Hyde—again become the woman who had fallen to pieces when her common-law husband deserted her and her child.

The problem was—how to invite the servant of a First-Class passenger to a party? A party her employers would not be invited to themselves?

Mid-afternoon, Futrelle found Hudson and Bess Allison strolling on the A-deck enclosed promenade, with no sign of their nanny or children.

“Another beautiful afternoon,” Futrelle commented casually as they paused at the rail by the window onto the gray-blue expanse broken by tiny whitecaps.

“Oh yes,” Hudson said, adjusting his glasses, “but too chilly for the boat deck, don’t you think?”

Even within the relative warmth of the promenade, pretty Bess was holding on to her husband’s arm tight.

“Much too chilly,” Futrelle agreed. “And where are your lovely children?”

“Lorraine and Trevor are with Alice,” Bess said, “in the starboard Verandah Café.”

“The kids seem to have taken over that little palm court,” Futrelle said with a grin. “I hope you won’t consider this forward, but I have an unusual request.”

“Certainly, Jack,” Hudson said, as if they were old friends; that was the way it was on a crossing.

“You’re familiar with W. T. Stead, of course.”

“Of course,” Hudson said, and some small talk followed about what an interesting character the old boy was.

“Well, he’s having one of his famous séances this evening,” Futrelle said.

Hudson’s youthful face lighted up, and Bess was smiling too. They exchanged glances and Hudson said, “Oh, wouldn’t that be a riot to attend! You’re not asking us to be part of it, are you? I think we’d say yes in a flash.”

“That’s not precisely it… You see, Stead, as you say, well… he’s a character all right—and he has eccentric criteria in selecting his participants.”

Hudson’s smile had frozen. “Do tell.”

“As a medium, he studies faces, and senses spiritual auras, listens to vibrations we earthbound mortals don’t feel or hear.” Then, with a laugh, Futrelle added, “Or at least he thinks he does.”

The Allisons, quite confused, laughed along, albeit a little stiffly.

“Anyway,” Futrelle continued, “Stead asked me to ask you, on his behalf… he apparently noticed that we’d formed a friendship…”

The Allisons both nodded, though Futrelle was overstating wildly.

“… so he’s asked me to ask if you would allow him to invite your nanny, Alice, to attend the séance.”

A moment of stunned silence followed; the couple had suddenly turned into a wax-museum exhibit.

Finally, Hudson managed, “Alice?”

“Our Alice?” Bess echoed. “Why ever for? She’s the quietest girl you could imagine.”

Futrelle shrugged, laughed softly. “Well, apparently still waters run deep—or at least, psychic waters do… If you need a baby-sitter for Lorraine and Trevor, I can provide one. Either my wife May, or Mrs. Henry Harris—you’ve met her… René?”

Hudson was trying to process this bewildering request. “Uh, well… dear, what do you think?”

Bess seemed on the verge of turning cross. “I’m disappointed that we weren’t asked, frankly. Can’t we even watch?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Mr. Stead is rather stubborn on that point: participants only, no spectators.” Futrelle hung his head, shaking it. “I do apologize for being party to this rudeness…”

“No!” Hudson blurted. “Not at all. I suppose it’s rather an honor to have our… nanny asked to attend such a special affair.”

Bess asked, “When is this séance?”

“Nine
P.M.
”

“Well, then,” she said, accepting her lot in life as coming in second place to her own servant, “the children will be in bed asleep by then. Our maid can look after them, easily enough. Let’s go give Alice the good news, shall we?”

Alice didn’t consider it good news.

“A séance?” she said. Trevor was on a blanket at her feet, pawing at a rattle with which golden-haired Lorraine was gently teasing the toddler. “Y’mean, one of them spook things?”

“Yes, dear,” Bess said patiently. “It’s an honor. Mr. Stead is a very famous man.”

“Do I have to?”

“It’s a night off, for Lord’s sake,” Hudson said irritably. “Don’t be sullen when you’re being singled out for a treat, girl!”

“If I must.”

Futrelle smiled at the young woman; the battered nose did such a disservice to her otherwise attractive features. The cobalt eyes were striking—and carried more intelligence than her dour manner betrayed.

“Alice,” Futrelle said, “Mr. Stead senses a great sensitivity in you. He would greatly appreciate your presence.”

Tiny Trevor said, “Goo! Gah!”

Lovely little Lorraine was laughing at her brother, letting him snatch the rattle from her.

Their nanny, who had once murdered a child younger than either of them, shrugged. “I’ll come.”

Futrelle had ruled out Hoffman/Navatril. It would have been clumsy, arranging an invitation for the Second-Class passenger, and the mystery writer doubted the man would come, under any circumstances. The doting father would not let out of his sight the children he’d kidnapped, which was one of the several reasons Futrelle did not believe him to be the murderer of Crafton and Rood.

Only one of those he asked refused his invitation to Stead’s séance.

“I want nothing to do with that old charlatan,” Major Archie Butt had said, taking a break between hands in an ongoing high-stakes poker game in the Smoking Room, a fragrant blue cloud of cigar smoke hanging over the table, as if threatening rain. Butt’s friend Millet was playing, as were young Widener and railroad man Hays.

“Hell, Archie,” Futrelle said, “you were hanging on his every word in here the other night.”

The dimpled jaw jutted. “That’s when I knew I’d had enough of him! That mummy balderdash! No, sorry, old man—afraid I
have better things to do with my time… such as play cards or get bloody drunk or a sublime combination thereof.”

It was clear the major could not be budged, and, disappointed, Futrelle had moved through the revolving doors into the portside half of the Verandah Café (it was the starboard half of the palm court that had been taken over by children and their nannies). He had just sat at a table in the shade of a palm so close it was tickling his neck when Millet—dapper in a gray suit and blue silk tie—came through the revolving door, looking for him.

The white-haired, distinguished-looking artist pulled up a wicker chair and sat, smiling shyly. “Glad I caught up with you, Jack.”

“Surprised you left the table, Frank. It looked like you were winning.”

Millet smoothed his salt-and-pepper mustache with a thumbnail. “I asked to be dealt out for a few hands. I… wanted a word with you, sir—in private.”

A steward came by and the two men ordered coffee.

“I wanted to explain about Archie’s reluctance to accept your invitation,” Millet said.

“No explanation necessary.”

“Well, he was damn near rude, and… look, there’s something I’ve been wanting to let you know, anyway.”

“I’m listening, Frank.”

The reserved artist drew in a breath, gathered his courage, and said, “The story Archie told you about this fellow, this blackmailer Crafton, that was true, as far it went—Archie indeed has been suffering from nervous exhaustion.”

“Being pulled between two friends as powerful as Taft and Roosevelt has to be an ordeal.”

“It was, and it is… but this Crafton is a scoundrel of the first rank. You need to be cautious around him, Jack—he’s capable of spreading the most scurrilous slander.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I don’t think you are. This is… embarrassing to even bring up.”

“I don’t tell tales out of school, Frank—and the only writing I do these days is fiction.”

Millet nodded, sighed again and, with a tremor in his voice, said, “Well, as you know, Archie and I are close friends—we’re also both lifelong bachelors. This son-of-a-bitch Crafton was threatening to humiliate us, in the most damaging, defamatory manner imaginable… Do I have to be more specific, Jack?”