Her shoulders slumped, and it was as though I could actually see her fighting spirit rise out and float away. She sank down onto the couch again and pressed her head against the back. In a flat, dead kind of voice she spoke.
“His name is Gerard Remy. I met him when I was young…terribly young. He charmed me and loved me—or, what I supposed was love. And he introduced me to a wonderfully easy way to make money: pickpocketing. He trained me tirelessly. And I became very good at it.”
She stopped for a moment and took another large drink. “But the better I became at theft, the more he seemed to resent it. He accused me of hiding money from him, of sleeping with the men I stole from. His jealousy grew and grew until he wouldn’t allow me to leave our flat alone. He wouldn’t let me out of his sight, so I couldn’t work and so we fought about money. And then—then he began beating me.”
I watched her carefully. Was she telling the truth or spinning a tale for some ulterior motive?
“I was so desperate to get away from him, I let myself be caught by the police. I felt I had a better chance of surviving prison than continuing with Gerard,” she said with a tremble in her voice. “But he had connections and I was released—into his custody. The beating he gave me that time…I—I nearly died.”
“But surely there must have been someone—”
She held her hand up weakly. “One night a few weeks ago I finally managed to escape him. But running from him was almost worse than being his prisoner. I knew he would be coming after me. I knew I had to get out of England. And I knew it would be far harder to trace me if I were part of a couple—if I had a partner, if I were a married woman. So I found you. And I thought it a great stroke of double luck when you so strangely insisted on adopting the Bjornstroms’ name. I thought that ensured that I was completely untraceable.
“But, as you see, it didn’t.” She sighed. “He found me anyway…”
She closed her eyes and I could see her make an effort not to cry.
“But just now you had the chance to put the brute away!” I protested. “Why didn’t you press charges?”
Celia gave a half laugh and shook her head helplessly. We sat quietly for a few moments, and, given her turmoil, I wondered if she had fallen asleep. Suddenly there was a light knocking on the door. I quietly got up and crossed the room. But just as I began to open the door, Celia seemed to come around. She sprang up and cried, “No! Don’t open it, Nigel!”
But the door was already open. I looked outside and there was Baldy. Before I could say a word, he smashed a fist across my mouth.
My head rocked backward, but instinctively I flung my fist out and connected with the side of his head—but he crashed a great paw into my stomach and I reeled back onto the floor.
“Next time you poke your nose where it ought not to be, chum,” he said in a surprisingly clipped accent, “right over the rail you’ll go—into the drink.”
He spat down at me, turned, and left.
As I lay there dazed, all I could think to myself was: “And that makes fistfight number three…”
Chapter 19
Nigel Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Friday, April 12, 1912, 3:15 PM
“That’s why I couldn’t press charges,” Celia said as she applied iodine to the cut near my mouth. “Gerard always travels with that man, Basil. He’s a sort of bodyguard and I knew he would be on board as well. If I had pressed charges against Gerard, Basil would have killed me. I’m sure of it.”
“He’s the man who followed me,” I mumbled through my swollen cheek. The ship suddenly did a small dip and roll, causing Celia to press against my wound. “Ouch, watch it! Look, I don’t understand why they waited so long to confront you or, rather, us. We’ve been out days now.”
Celia slowly put the bandage roll back into the medicine cabinet. “I suppose Gerard was trying to figure out who you were and what he could get out of you before forcing you to turn me over to him.”
I turned and looked at myself in the mirror. Considering the many blows I’d taken that day I was surprised that a sore shoulder, a slightly swollen jaw, and small cut on my right side were all I had to show. As I prodded my cheek, I found the wheels of my mind spinning. Celia’s story seemed to keep evolving. She hadn’t mentioned this Basil until he showed up. Yet then she said she had known immediately that he would be on board with Remy. But why was the bodyguard in first class and his boss in steerage? And why was she so intent on getting me out of the way? If the Frenchman was as violent as she claimed, surely she’d want the benefit of my protection—limited as today had proven it to be. She wasn’t telling me everything, and contrary to her earlier plea, I now found myself trusting her less and less.
“And Remy—what does he want with you?” I asked.
Celia looked at me with confusion. “He wants me back—back with him.”
“Why?”
She sat down on the edge of the bathtub. “I don’t know how to answer that. He has a sort of obsession with me. It’s not love—it’s something else. He seems to enjoy controlling me, keeping me under this thumb.”
I gave her a skeptical look.
“So this maniacal Frenchman races after you across England, books passage on a ship to America, and risks arrest—solely because of your great and undeniable beauty?” I asked with deliberate sarcasm.
Celia gave me a half indignant, half hurt look. “Never mind, Nigel. I can’t begin to make you understand.”
She got up and left the bathroom.
“There must be more,” I insisted as I followed her into our stateroom. “For all I know, this is part of a scheme you have with this Remy character: dupe the English fool into booking passage, then frame him for some crime or other and make off with the money. Perhaps there is an even bigger game aboard the Titanic than you’ve shared.”
Celia sighed loudly. She didn’t even attempt a retort.
“We have a fifty-fifty agreement on all spoils, my love,” I reminded her as I stretched out on my couch. “Whatever is afoot, I am not leaving. I am not taking another room, and I am not pretending to be separated from my dear wife. For richer or poorer, good times and bad, our marriage is going to endure for the extent of this voyage. In fact, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“Now you sound just like him,” she scoffed.
“I may sound like this villain, but don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t give you a matching set of scars on the other side of your back.”
Celia whipped around and gave me a look of enraged loathing.
“Get out,” she fumed with an almost crazed intensity. “If you don’t leave this instant, Nigel, I will go to Davies and confess everything. I told you I no longer care about the money, and I’m more than willing to prove it. Get out!”
She was trembling with anger as she picked up a heavy-looking gilded hand mirror. Recalling her excellent throwing arm—not to mention a day already filled with physical blows—I decided it probably best to make an exit.
I got up and went to the door. As I opened it, I hesitated.
“Look, Celia, that last comment was a bit rough. I’m sor—”
The mirror streaked across the room like a lightning bolt—and made blindingly painful contact with the non-injured left side of my mouth.
As it turned out, I was the one who would have book-ended scars.
Chapter 20
Nigel Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Friday, April 12, 1912, 9:30 PM
Of course the only place to nurse my many injuries was the bar in the smoking room. It was noisy and crowded and smoke-filled and just what I needed. I had a few shots of whiskey and bought a round for a couple of Scots headed to a golfing holiday in the States. We laughed and drank, and they told me risqué jokes that were impossible to understand through their thick brogues. Old habits die hard, and I was just about to suggest a game of cards, when I looked up into the bar mirror and saw someone standing behind me across the smoking room: Basil
.
Catching my eye, he lifted a stein of beer. I whipped around, only to be confronted with young Phil. “Bowen! I’ve been looking all over for you!”
I looked past him on both sides, but Basil was nowhere in sight.
“Did you see a large bald man when you came in?” I asked urgently.
Phil glanced around in puzzlement and shook his head. “Can’t say that I did. But what I can say is I’m awfully sorry about this morning and—”
I turned my head to look on the other side of the bar, and Phil’s eyes bugged out at the sight of my swollen mouth and matching cuts.
“Good lord! Did I do all this damage?” he asked incredulously, as he took hold of my chin and pointed it toward the light.
“I don’t think so, but then again I’ve rather lost track.” I sighed as I shrugged him off and took a gulp of my whiskey. “You here to finish the job, then?”
He laughed and clapped a strong hand on my shoulder. “No, I wanted to apologize. I had a long walk with Miss Moore today—jolly nice girl, by the way! From what she said it sounds like I’m responsible for a great deal of talk. I caused you to blame your wife for a flirtation that was entirely one-sided. And I only made things worse by trying to come to her defense.”
He nudged one of the Scots out of the way and signaled the bartender for a round. “Look here, I can’t deny that I find your wife extremely charming and attractive, but she shouldn’t pay the price for my foolish infatuation. I hope I haven’t caused any true unpleasantness between you two.”
I shrugged and said, “Mmm, ‘unpleasantness’ captures things pretty well, but don’t worry. It has little to do with you.”
I continued looking for Basil; the way he appeared and disappeared unnerved me. But I was at least comforted by the fact that he’d been alone; it probably meant Remy was either still in detention or far below in steerage. Either way, if all Celia had told me was true, I was going to need to keep my wits—and defenses—at the ready. But was all she said true?
The bartender put down our drinks, and Phil eagerly picked his up. “Let’s drink to Mrs. Bowen then!”
He downed his in one sure gulp. “I won’t pry into what is going on, but I daresay it will soon pass. Why, a nearsighted ninety-year-old could see how much in love you two are.”
I scowled and threw back the rest of my drink, and we talked for the next hour or so. Or rather, I talked and Phil proved a good sport by listening. I obviously couldn’t go into the exact situation with Celia, but he patiently endured my general complaints about how unknowable women were and how I was vowing to stay clear of them from that point on. I signaled the bartender for another round, but Phil took me by the shoulders.
“I think you’ve again had more than your share,” he said as he pulled me up from the stool. I protested a little, but as we walked I found myself swaying and bumping into people as he steered me toward the exit.
“A fierce swell tonight,” I muttered. “Funny, I’m just now noticing it!”
Phil laughed to himself and we went out onto the deck. There was a cool breeze blowing across the wooden planks, but the ship was plowing forward through the sea smoothly, and it was only then that I realized I was stinking drunk. What’s more, I was suddenly overcome with the urgent need to be sick. Phil guessed my condition and quickly maneuvered me down the deck to a rail that was flush against the side of the liner.
I leaned over and stared into the nearly black churning water. It was a strange sensation—like I was flying across the ocean—and even at this high level I felt a spray of water on my face. I wondered what it would be like to fall the great distance down into the sea. How hard would the water be when a body hit? How cold was that roiling water?
Eventually the sick feeling passed. I turned around and leaned my back against the rail and now looked up at the starry but moonless night. The decks of the Titanic glowed under their faint light, and I saw the very distinct figure of a large man up on the furthermost compass platform. He was leaning against the railing, looking down at me. Of course it was Basil, and though we couldn’t make out each other’s eyes, I held his stare for a long time.
The effect became dizzying and I suddenly felt almost hypnotized. My body went limp, and I started to roll backward over the rail. I was dimly aware of Phil shouting and grabbing me around the waist. For a moment I looked “up” to see the ocean directly above me.
Phil yanked me back over the side. “Watch it, chap! Look, it’s awfully late and you’re sure to waken Mrs. Bowen. You’d better bunk with me for the night.”
I nodded at Phil’s offer, and as we started back down the deck, I tried to avoid looking up at the compass platform. But my curiosity got the better of me. I glanced up and—again, exactly as expected—Basil was gone.
But in his place: a short, muscular man with curly hair.
Chapter 21
Celia Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Saturday, April 13, 1912, 5:00 PM
I was too afraid to leave the cabin the entire day.
Nigel hadn’t come back the previous night. The morning wore on and then it was afternoon and he still hadn’t returned. I paced and paced as the ship rolled through a lengthy swell that evening. The circumstances that had looked so rosy just over twenty-four hours ago had turned utterly against me. I felt trapped on all sides and kept wishing there were some way to get off this boat even though it was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
I started at a sudden knock. I hesitantly went over to the door and asked who it was. The reply came back “Steward, ma’am,” and, indeed, a capped young man stood there. He presented me with a small card and, tipping his hat, walked away. I closed the door and opened the note, which read:
Dearest Celia,
Do join your new friend for late tea tomorrow at 4:30.
Beryl Sedgwick
So she needed another fistful of cash. I sighed in frustration, and just then another knock sounded. I pulled the door back open without thinking.
Gerard Remy stood there.
He was now dressed in gentlemen’s garb—an impeccable suit and tie—and he was freshly shaved. I backed away in mute horror and stumbled as the ship again did a gradual side-to-side roll. Gerard gave me a strangely gentle smile and walked into the room. He closed the door behind him—and locked it.
“Good evening,” he said in the heavily accented voice that had once made me swoon. “Such a strange relief to speak English again! I’ve been pretending not to understand a word to those officers since I saw you yesterday. Thank you, darling Molly, for suggesting it.”
He took a seat on Nigel’s couch and looked around the room. “Hmm, Basil’s cabin has two windows. But still, this is much nicer than where I’ve been bunking in steerage.”
He looked at me in a friendly manner that was so false it was chilling.
“Gerard…listen. I’m going to have a great deal of money after we dock,” I said as calmly as possible. “We’ve—Mr. Bowen and I—we’ve had a bit of luck. But it all hangs on it looking as though we are happily mar—”
“You are wondering why Basil booked a room on the Titanic, are you not?” he asked, ignoring me. “I had such an odd feeling that our scheme—you recall our great scheme, darling? I felt something might go wrong. So I made a number of—what is the term—contingencies, yes? I suspected your dedication to our plan was weak so I found another girl, a pretty and willing wench named Liselle, just in case you disappointed me. As, of course, you did.”
He didn’t glare or sound angry—he just sat as calmly as if we were enjoying a cup of tea together. “Alas, it turned out Miss Liselle was a bit too taken with the plot. I discovered she had designs to use it herself with another partner! Can you imagine? Meanwhile, I booked passage for you and I on the Olympic and—again—just in case—Basil booked the Titanic. Fortunate, yes?”
My mind was reeling. If there had been a larger window, I might well have jumped out of it. I took a seat next to him and looked into
his eyes.
“Gerard, I can’t do it. That’s why I left you. I just can’t do it. I’ll give you whatever I have—but I can’t go through with anything involving a child. I beg you!” I pleaded. “Pickpocketing drunk rich men is one thing, but kidnapping is—”
He stood up sharply. “I dislike that word. We are simply borrowing the child of a rich couple until they realize that twenty-five-thousand dollars isn’t much to spare their tot from being tossed into the sea. And you are going to help, dear Mrs. Bowen.”
I stood up from the couch. “Gerard, please. Nigel—Mr. Bowen—has nothing to do with any of this. Please leave him out of it.”
He looked at me silently for a long, unnerving moment. Then, with a cold smile, he reached out and took my hands. “You are quite taken with this man, and on such short acquaintance. I wonder…how well do you really know him?”
He continued staring at me. “You must realize that Basil was trailing you all last week, my dear. He tells me your last evening in Southampton as a fetching redhead was quite eventful: card games, brawls, escapes. But there was more adventure for Mr. Bowen once you parted ways that night. You see, Basil followed Mr. Bowen and witnessed a rendezvous with yet another young lady—one he took to his hotel. But the encounter did not end quite so well for her. It seems a heated argument led to one thing and then, well, quite another…”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, though I instantly knew; asking was just a way of delaying the news.
“Surely you heard about the notorious ‘Southampton Strangler’?”
Taking the Titanic Page 6
