The Titanic Murders (26 page)

“Nothing!” Futrelle backed away, held his palms out. “Not a thing! Not your money, not your favors…”

She frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand. From where you sit, sir, I must be a murderess and a thief.”

“I see only a blackmailer’s victim, who fought back. If I’m successful in shielding you, I only want one thing, one promise…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Upon arriving in Canada, you will leave the Allisons’ employ, immediately… and use that bankroll of Crafton’s to begin a new life, with a new name.”

“Yes, sir!”

“And find some profession other than nanny. I don’t want you around children… understood?”

“Sir, oh sir… you
are
my judge, my kind and generous judge…”

“Do you promise?”

Tears were welling in those pretty eyes again. “I promise, sir.”

“Then let’s get down off this deck,” he said, “before we catch our death.”

DAY FIVE

APRIL 14, 1912

ELEVEN

SMOOTH SAILING

T
HE WIND CAME FROM THE
southwest, moderate but with a bite in it. The Futrelles were on the boat deck walking off an enormous First-Class Dining Saloon breakfast (Jack had perhaps ill advisedly taken two servings of the grilled mutton chops and bacon). The couple could not have found the clear, cool morning more delightful: to the horizon stretched a smooth shimmer of blue-gray sea under a faded blue sky blessed only with fluffy white unthreatening clouds.

“I hope I did the right thing,” Futrelle said, his breath pluming. He was in his topcoat.

May, wrapped up in her black beaver coat, was holding on to her husband’s right arm with both of hers. “I know you did, darling. And even if you didn’t—you erred on the side of compassion… and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Well, it remains to be seen if the captain will go along with my suggestions.”

“Surely he will,” she said.

And as they walked, they caught a glimpse of the man himself, Captain Smith undertaking his full inspection of the ship, that sacrosanct ritual of all passenger ships at sea. In his white uniform with its medals and gold-ribboned cuffs, the captain led
a parade of his department heads—chief officer, chief engineer, chief steward, the purser, even old Dr. O’Loughlin, all in dress uniform. From boat deck to boiler room, bow to stern, every accessible nook and cranny was to be inspected.

What Futrelle knew, that no one else did, was that the inspection team was running half an hour late; the captain would have to shake a leg to finish before the church service at eleven
A.M.
that he was set to lead.

The captain’s usual meeting of department heads, at ten
A.M.
, had been canceled so that the captain could attend a meeting with Futrelle and Ismay, which the latter had called.

“I’ve informed Captain Smith of the doings in the Reading and Writing Room last night,” Ismay said, the irritated contortions of his mouth making his mustache do a funny little dance.

The three men were again seated at the round table in the parlor of Captain Smith’s suite near the wheelhouse. A steward, who had long since disappeared, had served coffee and tea—Futrelle took the former, and was stirring cream and sugar in—while Ismay and the captain had taken the latter, though neither had touched theirs.

“Really?” Futrelle said with a facial shrug. “It was just an evening’s entertainment.”

“I don’t think so,” Ismay said.

The captain said, “From what Mr. Ismay tells me, I gather you may have flushed out our murderer.”

And here Futrelle and the captain shared a secret: Smith had been aware of Futrelle’s scheme and had agreed to it, arranging the use of the Reading and Writing Room for the séance. But Ismay wasn’t aware of that, and Futrelle was happy to cover for the captain.

Who was saying, “Yet Mr. Ismay says you refused to confirm your discovery, last night, when he confronted you, afterward.”

“That’s right.”

The captain frowned. “You mean you did flush out the killer?”

“I mean, that’s right, I did refuse to confirm Bruce’s suspicions.”

Ismay slapped the table and cups of coffee and tea jumped, spilling a little. “If we do have a murderer on this ship, we must act, and act at once!”

Futrelle sipped his coffee and smiled above the rim of the china cup. “Why? Because now that Astor, Guggenheim and the other nobs are in the clear—and it’s just a servant girl in question—this won’t be so embarrassing?”

Ismay scowled, folding his arms in disgust. “I won’t stand for your insults, Futrelle.”

“Well, then,” Futrelle said, setting down the cup, starting to rise, “why don’t I just leave and go on about my business?”

“Sir,” the captain said, reaching out to touch Futrelle’s arm. “Please. Sit down, sir. Let’s dispense with personalities and concentrate on facts.”

“All right.” Futrelle sighed, shrugged, sat back down. “The fact is, if there’s been
any
murder on this ship—even if the culprit isn’t part of the Smart Set—it’s going to blacken your great ship’s maiden voyage, Bruce… and your final crossing, Captain.”

“Be that as it may,” the captain sighed, “we have two murders, and there’s no sweeping them under the carpet.”

Futrelle leaned forward, dropping his casual, offhand tone, suddenly forceful. “This girl, Alice Cleaver, acted in self-defense. Crafton tried to rape her…”

“What?” Ismay cried, eyes widening.

“… and, later his partner Rood began to manhandle her in a similar fashion.”

Furrows carved into the captain’s brow. “Details, man,” he said.

Futrelle provided them, leaving out only that Alice Cleaver had helped herself to the cash on Crafton’s dresser, some of which may have been payoff money Ismay gave the blackmailer, Futrelle surmised.

“I sympathize with this woman,” Ismay said, and his concern seemed genuine enough. “But it’s not our place to judge. In any case, with these mitigating circumstances, she’ll probably get off.”

“I don’t think so,” Futrelle said. “Not with her past. Can you imagine the sensationalist press having at this? ‘Baby Killer Kills Again—on the
Titanic
!’ There’s some nice publicity for you.”

“Good Lord, man,” Ismay said, “there are children entrusted to her care, even as we speak!”

“She’s pledged to leave the Allisons’ service, upon reaching port.”

“Mr. Futrelle—why do you want to see this woman go free?” the captain asked.

“Because it’s the Christian thing to do. I realize this is a British vessel, but we’re in the middle of the North Atlantic, gentlemen. We’re a jurisdiction unto ourselves, out here. Let’s serve justice, not serve this girl up to corrupt New York coppers and hungry yellow journalists. Let’s give this unfortunate girl the opportunity my country gives anyone: a second chance.”

“I don’t see how we can,” Ismay said, obviously wishing he could, wringing his hands. His bleak expression indicated he’d begun to gather the extent of the devastatingly bad press guaranteed his ship if this came out.

“Whatever you decide,” Futrelle said, “I’m going to advise that you destroy that packet of blackmail documents.”

Ismay laughed once, without humor. “Damn it all, man! Earlier you were adamant that they
not
be destroyed.”

“Earlier I thought they’d be needed as evidence.”

“They are evidence,” the captain reminded both men.

“Precisely,” Futrelle said. “And into the hands of the police, those New York police I mentioned earlier, you will have placed defamatory material on the cream of your First-Class passengers. Have you read this material, gentlemen?”

Ismay avoided Futrelle’s gaze. “We, uh… glanced at the distaseful tripe.”

Captain Smith said, “We didn’t dignify the bilge with a close examination.”

“Well, if you had, you’d know that, at the very least, some of those involved will be embarrassed… others, like Major Butt, a fine man, would be ruined.”

Captain Smith reared back; his eyebrows were climbing his forehead. “Sir—would you have us sweep this entire affair under the carpet?”

“Why don’t you dump it to the bottom of the sea?”

Ismay was amazed. “Including the two corpses in our cold-storage hold?”

Futrelle nodded. “Exactly what I’d suggest.”

Captain Smith said, “Sir, you were the one who warned that these men, however vile, had associates, families….”

“Mr. Crafton died of a heart attack, in his sleep—natural causes. Mr. Rood, apparently despondent over his friend’s death, drank rather too much and took a spill on deck, taking a fatal fall. Dr. O’Loughlin fills out the reports, you bury the bodies at sea, and… if you can trust the handful of crew who
know about this unfortunate situation… sit back and wait to see if the White Star Line gets sued by any family members for negligence. If they do, settling with them will be a small price to pay for the large embarrassment you avoid.”

Ismay’s expression—a mixture of confusion and irritation, mixed with dismay—melted into blankness; but his eyes were moving with the rapidity of his thoughts.

Captain Smith wore the faintest frown and his eyes moved not at all—unblinkingly so—but it was clear he too was considering Futrelle’s suggestions and the various ramifications.

A knock at the door prompted the captain to say, “Come!”

Second Officer Lightoller stuck his head in. “Sir, my apologies for interrupting, but even if we begin our inspection immediately, we’ll be seriously late for church services.”

Rather dismissively, Smith said, “Well, then, cancel the boat drill.”

“Sir?”

“It’s just a formality, after all; we’ve got a calm Sabbath day at sea for our passengers, and we won’t interrupt it.”

Lightoller didn’t seem to like the sound of this order, but he said, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared.

Captain Smith stood. “Mr. Futrelle, I appreciate the manner in which you’ve aided us in this unfortunate matter. Mr. Ismay and I will take your suggestions under advisement.”

Futrelle rose. “I would appreciate it if you’d inform me of your decision. We should, as they say, get our stories straight.”

“We have another full day of travel,” the captain said. “Mr. Ismay and I will discuss this further, and you’ll have our decision tomorrow, by mid-afternoon.”

“I hope at the very least you follow my advice to burn those blackmail documents—including that torn list found in Crafton’s cabin.”

Ismay and Smith exchanged glances, then the captain said, “I believe you may be assured of that, sir.”

Futrelle sighed heavily. “I admit I’m relieved—not for myself; the documents aren’t so damning in my case. But you’ll do a great service to a number of people undeserving of such aspersions.”

Ismay stepped forward. “Mr. Futrelle… I apologize if I seemed rude. This has been an unusual situation, to say the least, and we do appreciate your generous counsel.”

“Do I assume correctly that you’ve changed your mind about commissioning me to write a murder mystery on the
Titanic
?”

“That is a fair assumption, sir,” Ismay said wearily.

And the White Star director offered his hand, which Futrelle shook; then the mystery writer and the captain shook hands, and the meeting was over.

With the boat drill canceled, church began on time—eleven
A.M.
—and though there were several pastors aboard, Captain Smith himself conducted the nondenominational Christian service himself. Held in the First-Class Dining Saloon, it marked the only occasion when Second- and Third-Class passengers were allowed into the First-Class area.

This rare instance of
Titanic
democracy meant that, present in the same room at the same time, were the Astors, Maggie Brown, Dorothy Gibson, Ismay, the Allisons with their children and nanny Alice, “Louis Hoffman” and his two cute boys and even the smelting-works lad, Alfred Davies.

And, of course, the Futrelles.

Captain Smith made a fine fill-in pastor, reading psalms and prayers, including “The Prayer for Those at Sea,” leading hymns accompanied by Wallace Hartley’s little orchestra.

Afterward, Futrelle—moving quickly to the rear where the Second and Third Class had been seated—managed to talk briefly to both Hoffman/Navatril, and Davies, filing out.