The Titanic Murders

TEN


SHIPBOARD SÉANCE





EVEN FOR THE TITANIC, THE Reading and Writing Room spoke of uncommon elegance. Situated on A deck, just forward of the ornate First-Class Lounge (of which it was a virtual extension), the high-ceilinged Georgian-styled chamber, with its plush armchairs and sofas upholstered in pink-and-red floral design, its wall-to-wall deep red carpet, its sheltering potted palms, made an ideal retreat for the ladies.

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?”

Looking at this esteemed American artist—a man decorated for bravery under fire in both the Civil War and the Russian-Turkish conflict—Futrelle felt a flush of rage toward the late Crafton.

Through his teeth, Futrelle said, “Crafton was going to try to paint Major Archibald Butt as, what—Oscar Wilde? It’s preposterous.”

Millet avoided Futrelle’s gaze, hanging his head. “All I can say is, Archie puts up a good front, but something as potentially emotional… and revealing… as Mr. Stead’s séance—good fun though it will probably be—would be a trial for him. So I apologize for my friend.”

“Again, none is necessary—but he’s lucky to have as good a friend as you.”

Now Millet met Futrelle’s eyes. His voice was soft, his expression almost bashful. “You haven’t asked me if there’s any truth to his slander.”

“I wouldn’t dignify the accusation with any consideration whatsoever. Besides—it’s none of my damned business, is it?”

Millet just thought about that for a moment; he seemed quietly shocked by Futrelle’s reaction. Then he smiled and nodded, saying, “You’re a good man, Jack.”

Their coffee arrived, and the two sat drinking it, talking of more pleasant subjects, including mutual admiration for each other’s prose (Millet was, in addition to a fine artist, an author of short stories, essays and an eminent translator of Tolstoy, among others). Millet expressed a typical expatriate’s view of his fellow countrymen, or at least countrywomen.

“An inordinate number of obnoxious, ostentatious American women on this voyage, don’t you think, Jack? Have you noticed how many of them carry tiny dogs with them, like living mufflers?”

“I have,” Futrelle admitted. “But it’s their husbands they lead around like pets.”

The two men had a hearty laugh, finished their coffee, shook hands and went their separate ways.

But Futrelle was dismayed by Butt’s refusal to attend, particularly now that he knew the major’s murder motive was the only one that truly rivaled that of the person Futrelle had pegged as the killer.

Only belatedly did it occur to him that Millet had the same motive.

And the artist seemed as unlikely as Butt to accept an invitation to a séance; so Futrelle decided not to bother offering one. The performance the mystery writer was staging was meant for only one person, and if he had misjudged the guilt of that person, the evening ahead would be purely entertainment, just another exotic shipboard trifle to amuse the rich passengers.

Just before nine, the audience of his show—who were also the star players—began to drift in, the men in their evening clothes, brandies and cigars in hand: Guggenheim and Straus, the handsome playboy and the reserved patriarch, an unlikely pairing but joined in business and ethnicity; Astor and his mascot Maggie Brown (in a blue silk beaded dinner gown and a feathered chapeau you could row to shore in), laughing it up together, her raucous presence unloosening the real-estate tycoon into near humanity.

Futrelle and May mingled with the millionaires and Maggie, and it was quickly established that Madame Aubert, Ida Straus and Madeline Astor were attending the evening’s concert.

Before long, Ismay entered, accompanying the lovely brunette actress Dorothy Gibson. Ladies’ men Astor and Guggenheim seemed immediately mesmerized by her oval face and languid eyes and creamy complexion, not to mention the hourglass figure ensconced in gray silk chiffon over dark blue silk, double pearls riding the swell of a bosom well served by a low scooped neckline.

Futrelle approached Ismay and the actress, saying, “Miss Gibson, it was kind of you to consent to join us.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, in her rich, warm contralto. Henry Harris should have no worries over how this moving-picture player would do with a speaking part on Broadway. “When I learned Mr. Ismay was to be a member of our party tonight, I imposed upon him to escort me.”

“Only too happy,” the White Star director said, his smile echoed by the upturned ends of his waxed mustache.

“Mr. Stead should be here any moment,” Futrelle said.

Ismay said, “I hope he’ll give us full instructions; this is my first séance, I’m afraid.”

Miss Gibson, clutching her escort’s arm, said, “I doubt any of us are veterans, Mr. Ismay. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself by screaming or tearing at the drapes.”

“I’ve attended a few sittings,” Futrelle admitted, “as story research. I wouldn’t be overly concerned.”

Maggie Brown, overhearing this, wandered over and said, “I sat with Eusapia Palladino once. She brought my parents back to talk to me.”

“That must have been thrilling,” Miss Gibson said.

“It was all right,” Maggie said. “Kinda made me wonder why they didn’t say somethin’ all those years they was sittin’ in my back parlor, freeloadin’.”

Futrelle’s laughter was partly in response to the irascible Mrs. Brown’s latest outburst, but also to the endearingly unladylike chortling of Miss Gibson.

Not joining in on the fun was Ismay, who had no discernible sense of humor; he was instead glancing around the room at the other guests, as they milled about. “Uh, Jack, a word with you, please? If you’ll excuse me, Miss Gibson…”

Maggie Brown and Miss Gibson fell in together, for a spirited show-business conversation (Maggie had theatrical aspirations), while Ismay buttonholed Futrelle near the bay window.

“I suppose,” Ismay said, “it’s pure coincidence that everyone here was on Mr. Crafton’s ‘client’ list?”

“Well, that’s not quite true, Bruce. Dorothy Gibson wasn’t on it, and for that matter, the, uh… torn list you showed me didn’t include Mr. Straus, Mr. Stead or yourself… if you’ll recall.”

Ismay’s frown was so tight it distorted his features. “What is this about? What are you up to?”

Futrelle patted Ismay gently on the back, almost as if comforting a baby. “Don’t be so suspicious, Bruce. Enjoy yourself—of course, many of the names on Crafton’s list are present. He selected only the very best people for his blackmail victims; there’s bound to be some overlap.”

Ismay’s frown lessened but did not leave. “Should I believe you?”

Futrelle gestured to the double doorways that connected to the lounge. “Look, here—here’s our host, and a participant he chose himself….”

And the great man, dressed in a brown tweed suit that may have been pressed once or twice since the century turned, rolled in like a cannon on wheels. On Stead’s arm, looking feminine and almost pretty, like a new schoolmarm out west, was Alice Cleaver—her figure, every bit as hourglass fetching as Miss Gibson’s, was draped in her Sunday best: a dark blue tailored suit with a white shirtwaist and a ruffled skirt. She wore a small fluffy-flowered hat and a timid but not fearful expression.

“Who is that woman?” Ismay whispered. She was obviously not of the same social standing as the Astors, Guggenheims, or for that matter Maggie Brown.

“Her name is Alice Cleaver,” Futrelle said.

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“She works for the Allisons, First-Class passengers—their nanny. Stead noticed her and sensed some psychic vibrations or some such about her.” Futrelle shrugged. “I don’t understand the mumbo jumbo myself.”

Stead was ushering the girl about the room, introducing her to her celebrated séance mates. To their credit, they were all quite gracious to her—of course, her shapely figure hadn’t been lost on either Guggenheim or Astor. But whatever the reason, propriety or lust, they were putting her at ease, and Futrelle was grateful to Stead—who never looked to Futrelle more like Santa Claus in those white whiskers than he did right now—for making the young woman feel welcome.

Futrelle wanted Alice Cleaver relaxed, not skittish, otherwise his experiment would be meaningless.

Now that everyone was present, Futrelle approached Stead, who still had the Cleaver woman on his arm, and asked, “Are you ready to begin, sir?”

“Certainly.” Stead raised his voice, its deep, pleasing resonance filling the chamber; he opened his arms like an effusive preacher welcoming his flock. “Take your seats at the table, if you please!”

May had set place cards as if at a formal dinner, and the guests dutifully took their designated positions; a steward circled the table, gathering brandy glasses, offering an ashtray for cigars, Stead having requested no drinking or smoking during the sitting. Then the steward exited, pulling the double doors shut one at a time behind him, two reverberating thuds, sealing them in, quieting the dull din of conversation.

The large round table was covered with a white linen tablecloth and in the middle sat a hurricane oil lamp with a pale floral shade, already lighted. Set out on the table in front of Stead’s seat was a pad of foolscap with three sharpened pencils. Smiles and nervous laughter tittered about the table, but talk had ceased, the atmosphere not unlike the last moments before a church service got under way.

The rumpled, bewhiskered, professorial journalist-turned-medium was the last to take his place, with Miss Gibson to his right, Ismay next to her, Maggie next to him, then Astor, Alice Cleaver (opposite Stead), Futrelle, Guggenheim and Straus, with an empty chair between Straus and Stead for May, who stood poised at the electric-light switch, awaiting the signal.

“Before we douse all lights but this lamp,” Stead said, his voice calm yet commanding, “I must caution you against your preconceived notions of a séance. This table is unlikely to levitate; you will hear no rappings, no hooting trumpets, nor will you witness the materialization of ectoplasm or floating disembodied hands.”

Respectfully, Straus asked, “What can we expect, sir?”

“Such manifestations as those I mentioned,” Stead continued, in a measured, soothing manner, “are associated with a physical medium. I, ladies and gentleman, am a mental medium; I bring only spoken or written messages, messages from the world beyond the impalpable veil…. Are there any further questions before we begin?”

“You said physical manifestations are ‘unlikely,’ sir,” Futrelle pointed out. “That seems to be leaving a door open.”

“At a séance,” Stead said gently, “many doors may open. You were invited here—all of you—because I sensed in you a certain receptivity to psychic energies. While I know, from experience, that I am not a physical medium… one of you may hold that power.”

“My word,” Ismay said. “Wouldn’t we know?”

Stead shrugged. “This ability may lay sleeping; tonight it could awaken… I have seen it happen—not often. But I have seen it. Further, you should be warned that nothing may happen—we see, we hear, on any given night, only what the spirits may be pleased to share with us.”

Guggenheim asked, “Are these spirits ‘ghosts,’ sir?”

“If that word pleases you. Are you a Christian, sir?”

“No. But I believe in the same God as the Christians.”

Astor said, “I am a Christian, sir.”

“And I,” Ismay said.

Stead said, somberly, “ ‘If a man dies shall he live again?’ Does not Christ promise us immortality? I have witnessed immortality, or at least the persistence of the personality of man after the dissolution of the vessel.”

Maggie frowned. “What, the Titanic?”

“No! This vessel, this corporeal vesture. We no more die when we lay our bodies aside at ‘death’ than when we take off an overcoat.”

“Who are these spirits?” Miss Gibson asked. “Why aren’t they in heaven?”

Stead smiled patiently. “Perhaps they are, my child, returning to us from the other side, with wisdom to impart, or perhaps offering consolation for mourning loved ones. Others may be in a limbo world….”

“Purgatory,” Maggie said.

“That is one religion’s word for it. This is a science in its early stages; we are taking tentative steps into the unknown… but I assure all of you, none of these spirits means us harm.”

Maggie squinted at him. “The bad ones went straight to hell, you mean.”

Despite his solemn demeanor, Stead chuckled softly. “Perhaps so—I know of no instance when a sitting like this one has been visited by a demon. A tormented soul, possibly… an inhabitant of that limbo world to which you refer, perhaps some recently deceased party who has not come to terms with his new, noncorporeal state. Now—if there are no further questions…”

And there were none.

“Mrs. Futrelle, if you would, the lights?”

The room fell dark but for the glowing oil lamp, the orb of its canary shade casting its flickery jaundiced reflection upon the nine faces, eerily highlighting bone structure while other features lurked in pools of shadow. Those seated there might have been spirits themselves, albeit well-dressed ones, phantasms in fancy evening dress. Stead especially looked unearthly with his clear blue eyes and prominent nose and bushy whiskers washed in yellow.

His sonorous voice intoned, “My friends, I beg you to clasp hands…”

And, as May took her seat next to Stead, the group joined hands, forming a human circle, each one eager for the comfort of mortal flesh. Alice Cleaver’s palm was cold and clammy against Futrelle’s.

“… and we will wait, and allow the spirits to come to us, and to speak through me… I may release your hand, Miss Gibson, should I feel the stimulus to write.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

Silence fell like a cloak over the room, not really silence, but the ordinary sounds of a steamer at night, suddenly heightened: the creak of woodwork, the remote thrum of engines, the muffled movement of stewards and passengers, the shimmer of the nearby glass dome over the stairwell as the ship created its own wind carving through the night at twenty-some knots. Somewhere a clock was ticking, a mechanical heartbeat, deafeningly soft…

“William,” a voice sweetly said.

Stead’s own voice!

But this was higher-pitched than his normal tone, and feminine, coming from lips in a ghostly yellow face that had gone slack, eyes closed as if in sleep, or death.

The sweet female voice from the rough male form continued: “Why have you not saved my usual seat at your table? Am I not wanted here?”

Then the old man’s bulk shuddered, and—his eyes remaining closed—he said in his own voice, “I apologize, dear Julia. I felt our purpose tonight was beneath you.”

Futrelle—whose left hand was being gripped firmly, to the point of discomfort, by Alice Cleaver—was afraid the old boy, in the grip of his conscience and delusions, would spoil everything.

But Stead suddenly fell silent, releasing Miss Gibson’s hand, and he grasped a pencil and, with eyes still closed, head raised, he began to write, quickly, fluidly. He seemed to have written about a paragraph’s worth, when he reached for Miss Gibson’s hand again and looked down at what he’d just written.

“My great and good friend, my spirit guide, Miss Julia Ames, has imparted a message for me, which I will share with you. She says, ‘Let me say to my dear friend and helper, who goes forth across the sea, rest assured that you will be left in no uncertainty when comes the clarion call. All questions soon will be answered.’”

Futrelle, like any good producer, was getting irritated with Stead, to whom he attempted to send the following psychic message: Stick to the script, you old goat!

Then the quiet room was again loud with the ticking clock, the thrum of engines, the rattle of the glass dome, the distant movement of people elsewhere on the ship….

Just when Futrelle thought he would scream not from fright but boredom, Stead said, in his own voice, “I sense a spirit in this room.”

Darkness and ambience had begun playing sly tricks; their own faces in the campfirelike glimmer of the lamplight seemed to float about the table.

“A child… a very young child,” Stead said quietly. “So young he has not learned to speak…”

Alice Cleaver’s hand gripped Futrelle’s even tighter. With his head lowered, but his gaze secretly shifted her way, Futrelle could see her, staring at Stead, the blunt-nosed mask of her face frozen with fear, the cobalt eyes wide and staring and glittering in the hurricane’s yellow glow.

“… but I sense forgiveness… absolution… this baby, like the baby Jesus, embodies forgiveness…”

The grip loosened, just a bit; and Alice Cleaver’s lower lip trembled, her eyes brimming with tears.

“… though he died by violence, the baby boy is at peace, and he loves his mother….”

Tears trickled down the homely face, glistening in the lamplight.

But another woman at the table was reacting, too: the woman next to Stead, Dorothy Gibson—her eyes closed tight, her head weaving as if loose on her neck—was in a trancelike state, trembling, a trembling that ascended to tremors, as if the young woman were a volcano intent on erupting.

All eyes in the darkened room were on the beautiful face in the yellowish luster of the lamp, a beautiful face that began to contort as if in excruciating pain.

Then, in a deep, male voice, Dorothy Gibson spewed the words: “I forgive no one!”

Stead, still holding on to the convulsing girl’s hand, asked gently, “Who are you, spirit? Why are you troubled?”

Miss Gibson shivered, as if fighting the spirit within her, then the male voice said, “My name is John.”

Alice Cleaver blinked away the tears; she, too, was trembling, but the tears had halted, and her eyes were wide and wild with fright.

Patiently Stead asked, “What is your last name, John?”

The deep male voice erupted from the girl: “Crafton!”

Astor said, confused, “Crafton isn’t dead!”

Maggie said, “Yeah? When’d you see him last?”

“That’s just wishful thinking,” Guggenheim said, but he didn’t sound so sure.

“Quiet,” Straus said, fascinated by the bizarre tableau.

Ismay’s eyes were narrowing in mistrust; then he glared across the table at the mystery writer. “Futrelle…”

And Alice Cleaver’s grip on Futrelle’s hand was evincing the strength he’d suspected she had….

“I can’t breathe!” the male voice screamed, and everyone at the table jumped in their seats, as Dorothy Gibson’s face reddened, the pretty features twisting into a mask of anguish. The deep voice flowed out of her: “Stop! Please stop…. Can’t breathe! I can’t breathe… you… are… killing… me!”

Alice Cleaver screamed.

Releasing Futrelle’s hand as if it were a stove’s hot burner she’d touched, the young woman sprang to her feet and ran into the darkness.

“Please keep your seats,” Stead said gently, just loud enough to rise over the murmured confusion of his guests. “May—the lights… this sitting is over.”

Ismay was rising, but Stead stood and reached across the exhausted Miss Gibson and clutched Ismay’s arm. “Be seated, sir! Do not follow them… I beseech all of you.”

In the meantime, Futrelle had pursued the young woman into the darkness, her sobbing leading the way; even in the dark, Futrelle had enough sense of his bearings to know she wasn’t heading for the double doors into the lounge, but to the side door, the corridor door.

Then a momentary slash of light cutting through the blackness—as that door opened and closed—confirmed his suspicion.

The nanny was running down the corridor, forward of the Reading and Writing Room, and Futrelle was after her, following her into the reception area—empty of passengers, not even a steward in sight—as the Grand Staircase yawned before them. His glasses had fallen off his face, and her hat had tumbled to the floor, like a big bread crumb marking her path.

She all but flew up the stairs, her ruffled skirt rustling, hard soles of flat shoes echoing like gunshots, running up onto that very balcony where, not so long ago, he had dangled the blackmailer down over.

Then she was through the door onto the boat deck, and he was only seconds behind her, and when he burst through the door, onto the deserted deck, the cold night air was little brittle icy daggers stabbing at him, and the girl…

… the girl stood at the rail, between two lifeboats, her leg slung over the side, propped there, as she was trying to decide.

“That would end it, Alice,” Futrelle admitted quietly.

“Stay back, sir! Stay away.”

“I can’t obey that request, Alice.” He shrugged. “If you’re going to jump, you’re going to jump… but do it knowing I stand here not as your judge, or as any threat to you.”

“My life is over,” she said, and her eyes were tormented, her face streaked with tears, her lips trembling. “I got to go join my baby.”

But she didn’t jump. He knew she might, but didn’t really think she would: everything he knew about this young woman indicated, however sad and sick and even twisted she might be, that she was, first and foremost, a survivor.

So Futrelle moved gingerly forward until he was standing at the rail next to her. He glanced over its edge. “The water’s so black it doesn’t even reflect the stars. They say it’s cold—near freezing.”

“Don’t touch me. Don’t try to stop me.”

The sky was a dark blue, cobalt not unlike this poor girl’s eyes; no moon, but the stars were so vivid, so limitless, it was if the night had countless tiny holes punched in it and tomorrow was streaming through.

Futrelle leaned casually against the rail, as if he were just taking the air and not talking to a woman perched between the deck and the depthless ocean as if astride a mechanical horse in the nearby gym.

Gently, unthreateningly, he said, “John Crafton tried to blackmail me, too, Alice.”

“… Pardon, sir?”

“Just about everyone in that room downstairs, at the séance, was one of his victims. I had a mental breakdown, Alice—I was hospitalized—and John Crafton was going to defame me with that knowledge, in front of the world.”

Her lower lip quivered, shivered, whether from cold or emotion, he couldn’t hazard a guess; the eyes welled with fresh tears. “He was a beast.”

“Everyone has secrets, Alice—many of us have terrible secrets. Things we’ve put behind us; things for which we pray God has forgiven us.”

She nodded, haltingly. That flat-nosed face could have been pretty if someone, perhaps as long ago as her childhood, hadn’t struck her some dreadful blow.

He kept his voice casual. “Even Mr. Guggenheim, Mr. Astor, the richest men on this ship, richest in America herself, have secrets… same as simple people like you and me, Alice. They were Crafton’s prey, as well.”

Her chin was quivering now, too. “He… he didn’t want my money.”

“He wanted something else, didn’t he, Alice?”

She nodded pathetically. “I had twenty dollars Canadian the Allisons give me. I sneaked out, late at night, went to his room like he asked… he opened the door, and yanked me inside, and…”

Tears streamed down her face and her body was racking with sobs, and Futrelle lifted her off the railing and into his arms and patted her back, comforted her, holding her gently.

“He was naked, wasn’t he?” Futrelle whispered.

“Yes, sir.”

“You tried to give him that money, Alice?”

“Yes… He stood there, naked as a jaybird, pale as a frog’s belly, and he laughed at me. Laughed!”

She drew away so that she could look at him; her expression said that she was telling the truth.

“Like I said, sir—he didn’t want money. He… he told me to get undressed; said he wanted to watch. Said if I didn’t give him my favors… every night of this voyage… he’d tell the Allisons about my baby.”

“I understand.”

“He… he climbed in bed. He kept saying, take them off, take them clothes off… and I say, ‘Let me give you a kiss first,’ and he said somethin’ like, ‘Now that’s a girl,’ or ‘That’s more like it,’ and I leaned over and I put the pillow on him.”

Her voice and her face had a blankness now, an emptiness; her eyes were half-lidded, staring dully into the awful memory of it.

“He was a scrawny thing… not strong. Weak as a kitten, or a cat, anyways. And I was never stronger. I held them feathers on him, and he fought, he did thrash, but I pushed down, I held him down, and… and finally he didn’t struggle no more.”

She began to sob again and he gathered her to him, and patted her back, and said, “He was an evil man, Alice. You were protecting yourself.”

Nodding desperately, she said, “I was protectin’ my honor! I ain’t the best girl in the world, I guess I know that better than anybody, sir… but I ain’t no man’s white slave! So I smothered the son of Satan, and I’d do it again, gladly.”

“You did do it again, didn’t you?”

Her eyes flared. “Pardon?”

“Crafton’s partner-in-crime: Mr. Rood.”

She swallowed. “Don’t know ’im, sir.”

“Alice… I’m your only hope. Either you trust that I have your best interests at heart, or you’d best go back to that rail and jump.”

“I don’t… don’t really wanna die, sir. Will they hang me?”

“I’ve told you: I’m not your judge. I’m your friend—and another victim of that vile pair. What happened with Rood?”

“He told me to meet him on the deck, middle of the night—two A.M., when the ship was asleep. He said if I didn’t meet ’im, he’d tell on me to the Allisons. He knew all about my baby, too. He said he even had the pictures from the papers to show the Allisons. I need that job, sir! I need the chance the Americas give.”

“You’re getting off the subject, Alice. Tell me about that night on deck with Mr. Rood.”

“He… he knew his partner was dead. He said he seen the stewardess come tearin’ out of his friend’s cabin, white as a ghost, and he quicklike slipped in and seen the body. And he knew I done it—or anyways, he figured I done it, ’cause his friend told him what he was goin’ to do to me. I think… I think I was to be both their white slaves, by crossing’s end.”

“Is that what he wanted from you up here, Alice? Your ‘favors’?”

She was staring at the deck. “No. No, he… he wanted the money.”

“What money, Alice?”

“I did somethin’ bad in that room, somethin’ I shouldn’t—and I ain’t talkin’ about riddin’ the world of that blackhearted bastard. But there was this money on his dresser, just sitting there, this great wad of paper money. When Mr. Crafton was dead, when I just stood there catchin’ my breath, I seen it there, sir, that money… and I snatched it up. Took it with me. Figured… I earned it.”

“And Rood wanted that money.”

She nodded. “He started in to get rough with me, sir… he begun to shake me like a doll, till my head was rattlin’… it was right there, it happened.”

She pointed, like a child picking out a toy in a store window; but she was singling out one of the davit-slung lifeboats.

“That’s where it happened, sir… I grabbed him and I shoved him, shoved him hard… didn’t mean to do it so hard, I was just… tryin’ to get loose of him.”

“You’re saying that’s what killed him?”

She nodded. “Caved the back of his head in, it did, sir.”

“There must have been blood.”

“There was, sir. He didn’t have no pulse, sir. So I hid him in the boat.”

“You did that yourself? Slung him up in there?”

“Yes, sir. You said it yourself, sir… I’m a strong girl.”

Something didn’t sit right with the second half of her story; but Futrelle had a feeling this was the only story he’d get out of her. She had calmed down—the hysteria was over, the tears too, and she had gone from the girl unhinged by his manipulated séance to the battle-scarred survivor she innately was.

Still, she was beaten down, a flat-nosed girl in her blue Sunday dress. “What now, sir? See the captain? I’ll turn myself in, if you like. Will they hang me, sir?”

“Let’s find a bench and sit, Alice.”

They did. The deck remained theirs alone; theirs, and the cold night and the glittering stars.

“I’m going to try to help you,” he said.

She gazed at him, puzzled. “Why, sir?”

“Because men like Astor and Guggenheim and the rest… even men like me… can fight the likes of a John Crafton in all sorts of ways, including just throwing money at him. But a girl of your station, you don’t have the same choices. It troubles me that violence follows you, Alice… but I told you I was not your judge.”

“But the captain… ?”

“The captain and Mr. Ismay, well… I’m going to try to keep this from coming out. I can’t promise you I can manage it. But I promise I will try.”

“Why?”

“You were wronged, Alice. To see you spend a day in jail for removing a cancer on society like Crafton or Rood, I simply cannot countenance.”

She beamed at him, happiness seeming out of place on the battered face. “Oh, sir… what do you want from me?”

“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.”