by Alan Veale
Picking his way carefully over the tram tracks and through drifting crowds around a Metrolink Station, Billie was curious to see a new entrance in glass and steel had been constructed, linking the library to the Town Hall extension. With a slight grimace of distaste, he made his way inside, reaching out for the comfort of familiarity.
But it was a different world.
He stared in awe at the transformation. The cream-plastered corridors and Formica-trimmed shelving under dusty fluorescent strip lights were no more. In their place someone had opened up the interior and turned it into a car showroom—without the cars. He wandered into the heart of the ground floor space, taking in the concealed lighting and the circular centrepiece. He assumed this had replaced the spiral staircase he remembered using to reach the Reading Room on the upper floor. Looking up through a glass ceiling, Billie could just glimpse the huge dome that crowned the old building. Surely that part of history had been left intact? He looked for the stairs.
Leaving the spectacular modern finish of the new-look hallways behind, it was a relief to find the Great Hall looking much as he remembered. A great deal of effort had been made for a sympathetic restoration of original features, with long reading tables radiating out from the centre. An ornate clock resplendent in gold leaf stood proudly atop four green marble pillars, encouraging the eye skyward. He stood a little way back from the old counter where he had spent so many hours in previous years. How often had he run down the steps behind to retrieve a list of items from the floors below?
Sitting at the end of one of the tables he looked up at the religious text etched around the edge, just beneath the dome. As he turned his head and body to take in the whole scene, a jolt of recognition sent blood rushing to his head, and he blushed at his lack of perception.
Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom, and with all thy getting get understanding. Exalt her and she shall promote thee; she shall bring thee to honour when thou dost embrace her, she shall give of thine head an ornament of grace, a crown of glory she shall deliver to thee. Proverbs 4:7
Profound advice for any reader, but it was the letters and numbers at the tail end of the inscription that made a connection: Four to Seven. Or Four Two Seven. It seemed such a thin disguise, and he should have seen through it before now. That Old Testament book was often abbreviated to four letters: PROV. Billie reached into his inside pocket for the paper on which Emma had written her cryptic message. Those same letters leapt out at him: 401Dox@PROV427. Spoken out loud, those last three digits could read like a maths ratio, replacing the 2 with a colon. She knew about his years working in this very location, and had even told him, the day they first met, that she was giving a talk at Manchester’s Central Library. She probably sat in the Reading Room while researching The Tragic Sister, read the inscription herself, and knew it was something with which he would be familiar. Clever. So clever that her coded clue had completely escaped him.
With the door to one half of the message prised open, the other became visible. Initially, he assumed 401Dox to be a reference to the docks from which ship 401 (Titanic) had sailed—meaning its original birthplace of Belfast, or even its port of registration at Liverpool. That might have been a pointer to where Emma had gone into hiding, but if so, it made no sense for her to be here in Central Library, a repository for books—and documents. She had always referred to the ‘Titanic Document’, from which he’d been allowed to see a small extract. ‘Come to Manchester and I’ll let you see the rest of it,’ had been almost the last thing she said to him. The enigma on the paper he was holding suggested Emma had hidden it at the library.
Thirty-Four
Billie returned to the ground floor of the library with a clear objective. If Emma had indeed placed the Titanic document here for safekeeping, she would have had to make use of a new system being trialled for the general public. The Mitchell was the only other library in the country participating in the scheme, so it was already familiar to him. Retracing his steps into the centre of the public area, he saw what he was looking for: The Archives Search Room.
Many months earlier, an enterprising Manchester archivist had suggested a potentially lucrative idea for using existing space: Let the public store their own valuable treasures alongside the library's collection of rare books, first folios and mediaeval manuscripts. The facility was as secure as any bank, and if it helped bring in a little extra income, then why not? There were strict conditions, of course, but if he was reading her clue correctly, this had to be Emma’s best option for putting the document out of the reach of Peter Gris.
‘Help you?’
The librarian behind the desk had a polite smile, but looked bored. The words “public perception” had clearly not yet featured on his annual personnel report.
‘Yes, please. It’s about the new Personal Archive Service.’
A brighter look. ‘Oh yes? Did you want to make a deposit?’ The man pulled out a drawer, preparing to offer Billie a promotional leaflet and application form.
‘No. I… I need to inspect a document that should already have been placed in storage.’
‘Okay. An inspection, yes? What name is the item under?’
As the man clicked a mouse to bring up a search screen, Billie spotted the flaw in his own thinking. ‘Dearing, I think. Emma Dearing? Or just E. Dearing.’
‘Just a sec. No… sorry, I’ve nothing under Dearing. I take it that’s not your own name?’
‘Ah, no. You could be right. I didn’t make the deposit, so perhaps you could try Vane instead? V-A-N-E. Mr W. Vane.’
More mouse clicks. ‘Got it. Deposited ten days ago.’
Relief spread through him like a warm bath.
‘Take this reference number and key it in on any of these terminals, then enter your password, someone will bring up your file within about ten minutes. Okay?’
Billie gave an automatic nod and took the proffered scrap of paper. He should have expected that. A password! There had to be one. He looked around for inspiration from the light and airy space furnished with an assembly of grey swivel chairs, large tables and a dozen or more computer workstations. Several were occupied, so he made his way to the nearest vacant seat, feeling like a child who’s just been told Christmas is cancelled.
He clicked his way through the welcome screen and entered his reference number when asked. In front of him he could see his own name and the title of the deposited document: Gris Nemesis. Emma’s hand could not have been clearer. But then a cursor blinked in a box, challenging him to input between 8 and 15 characters, upper and lower case, and to include at least one number or symbol. He was stumped. Why hadn’t Emma thought of this? If she was so clever… okay, he had to try something. He typed his password from work. A red cross flashed up on screen. Invalid.
Billie could barely contain his frustration before another connection came into his head: symbol. Emma had left him one clue. Perhaps that was all he needed. Slowly and carefully he typed: 401Dox@PROV427.
A green tick appeared on the screen, then a message asking him to wait while his deposit was brought up from the library vaults. Billie sat back in his chair and felt a stream of sweat start to soak through his shirt. It had been quite a day.
With impressive efficiency, a smiling archivist was soon at his side, holding a dull green plastic Ziploc file that could easily have contained his daughter’s school homework. She placed it on the table, explaining the item was his to take away now, or to return for deposit at any time providing he produced the computer printout taped on the front. Billie smiled and nodded, barely able to believe he’d finally got something right.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she said, and was gone.
He unzipped the file and pulled out a buff cardboard folder marked with his name. The contents, with the exception of the top sheet, were a small stack of aged A4 photocopies—bent, creased and frayed at the edges. Billie’s immediate thought was that they would be better protected in plastic sleeves. But that could wait
. The top sheet was clearly newer, addressed to him, and simply signed “Em”.
Billie—as you’re reading this I have to congratulate you. You’ve exceeded my expectations! Unless there’s been a complete balls-up and it’s somebody else reading this. Hopefully on your behalf? Time is too short to worry, and I have to trust you did what you promised and gained some “wisdom”. I always loved that quote, but I have to admit that’s partly because it’s so bloody feminist. What do you think of it? Maybe we’ll have a chat when this is all over, but don’t hold your breath. Some of us may go down with the ship.
Billie rolled his eyes at Emma’s nautical reference. He scanned quickly through the next paragraph to where she had listed the contents:
So here’s what you should find in the folder:
Oct 1911 notes of a meeting chaired by J P Morgan (you’ve read some of it)
Jan 1912 notes of a meeting between Pirrie and Churchill
Jan 1912 notes of a meeting between Pirrie, Ismay and B. Penn
March 1912 plans for Titanic rendezvous with the Pendragon
Dept of Trade memo (undated) to Pirrie confirming government support
June 1912 letter to Pirrie from Seaman’s Association in Belfast (re Ismay)
1918 article from Belfast Telegraph covering a visit by Lord Mersey
He couldn’t resist turning over the letter to glance at the items themselves, but then he remembered to check his watch and saw how near it was to closing time. Inspection could wait. Smiling happily at the bored librarian, he headed for the exit.
Back in St Peter’s Square, surrounded by a growing crush of humanity, Billie felt alone and vulnerable again. The Ziploc file in one hand and a small carrier bag containing phone and charger in the other, he took a right turn in search of his next refuge.
*
‘Okay, sweetheart. You have a great day at the zoo. You’ve got my new number now, so if you want to call me tomorrow when you get back…? Wonderful! Goodnight lovely lady.’ Billie gave a heartfelt sigh after speaking to his daughter in Edinburgh. Hers was the only number he could remember from memory, and it had been a huge relief to have a normal conversation again. Making calls was easy, except when all his contacts were on the SIM card in his old phone.
He glanced at his watch again, aware of how late it was, knowing he still needed to make the promised call to Robin. He had managed to check into a budget hotel close to the library, and while the privacy of his room offered a greater degree of protection, Billie still felt the need to hide the Ziploc file under a couple of spare pillows in the wardrobe. He had called Tina first. It seemed easier to tell a ten-year-old that daddy had been careless and mislaid his phone, rather than admit he was on the run with a document someone wanted to kill for.
The replacement smartphone had been charged to a little under half its power, and with the benefit of free Wi-Fi, Billie found the Hilton’s website and phone number. Moments later, putting on a Scottish accent, he left a message asking for Mr Hazell to contact Mr Williams on the new number. He only had to wait a couple of minutes. Robin must have been waiting for his call.
‘Hello, laddie. How you doing?’
‘Hi, Robin. It’s me.’
‘I know who I’m speaking to, Mister Williams! Don’t worry, Billie. We’re both on WhatsApp so it’s safe enough. Where are you?’
Billie quickly filled him in on his movements since he last spoke to Chrissie.
‘So, you’ve got the document there in your room?’
‘I’ve no choice, have I? The library was about to shut, and tomorrow’s Sunday. We’re going to have to get our heads together and decide what to do with it before Monday. In the meantime, I’m stuck here. Can you come over? You and Chrissie? And would you mind bringing my bag?’
‘Chrissie’s at the hospital with Ed. I’ll give her a call and see how long she’ll be. Then we’ll be straight over, laddie.’
Billie put his phone aside and retrieved the file. He was desperate to read the contents, but first he needed to look at Emma’s letter again, so he pulled out the top sheet of paper from the file and studied the parts he had previously skimmed over:
Okay—so this is the Titanic Document I’ve been going on about. I’m putting it in your hands now. Look after it, and depending what happens to me you’ll have to decide what to do with it. One caveat: DO NOT COPY IT ON YOUR PHONE! (Even cloud storage is not safe) I’m serious about this, Billie! Peter Gris is NOT dead, and I’m 100% positive he’s deliberately faked his death because the only other option would be to go on the run. Not his style. He has to be in control, and what he wants more than anything is to destroy this, and anyone that tries to stop him. Why? Because it was a political timebomb in 1912, and the same applied in 1985 when he killed my dad. He’s pretty close to a few people still in government today, and I believe he’s invested heavily in something this document still threatens. If we get to talk sometime I WILL tell you more, but my personal story is not what matters. Just understand that the guy who wrote most of the enclosed notes was my ancestor (Mickey Palmer).
One last thing—I don’t know where I’ll be when you read this, so don’t expect me to tell you. Whatsapp me on the new number please. Just so I know you got this.
New number? For the first time Billie realised Emma had put a phone number at the foot of the letter. There was no way he was going to call her now. The papers underneath beckoned like a Siren at sea. As he studied the various texts in front of him, the words on the page introduced the names of powerful men, some familiar, others less so. An open doorway led him into a world of greed and power, political collusion and tragic conspiracy.
Thirty-Five
Saturday evening in the centre of Manchester is always good for a night out. Chrissie Fersen had come prepared, this time dazzling anyone she met with a Hollywood smile and a figure-hugging suit in vibrant yellow. But she wasn’t in the mood for clubbing. Having quizzed her brother Ed on his progress to full health, then Robin on Billie’s movements since he dumped her at a downtown bar, she was keyed up for plenty more questions as she and Robin entered Billie's fifth-floor hotel room.
‘If you hadn’t answered the door right then, we were going to a party next door. How are you holding up, feller?’
For answer, Billie gave her a hug. He felt her respond to the embrace, a reminder of a time they’d shared once before. ‘I’m okay—now. Thanks, guys.’ He stepped back. ‘This is what I think might be described in the States as one hot potato. Looks like we’re about to find out just how hot.’
‘Is that it?’ said Chrissie, as Robin dropped Billie’s bag on the floor.
‘What?’ Billie followed the look, realising Emma’s single page letter was lying on top, looking a little creased where he must have leaned on it. ‘No! No, look. You’d better sit over there, or on the bed. Whatever. It’s here.’ Pulling out the Ziploc file from its hiding place, he hesitated. ‘There’s quite a few pages. I’ve read it all twice and I’ve got my own thoughts, but let’s discuss each one after you’ve both had a chance to read.’
No one broke the silence that lasted several minutes. Robin found himself looking at a typed letter addressed to Lord Pirrie from an organisation he assumed to be a trade union. Chrissie picked another at random, a two-page summary in Mickey Palmer’s elegant handwriting. The heading at the top of the page was neatly etched in block letters:
MEETING BETWEEN LORD PIRRIE, MR J B ISMAY AND MR B PENN, JANUARY 15th 1912:
Following an introduction by Mr Ismay, Mr Penn gave a presentation (see separate sheet) on the basic details of plans for a rendezvous in mid-Atlantic between Titanic and ?? (a yet to be identified vessel) which would be towed into position by a German ship. Following the presentation, Mr Penn asked if there were any questions…
‘Any questions, gentlemen?’
The New York accent sounded harsh among the home-grown voices in the Harland & Wolff boardroom.
Lord Pirrie’s response was a good deal softer in dialect. �
�Yes, indeed. Mr Penn, would you please be good enough to tell me what makes you so confident that this “exercise” will be successful in promoting future business for the White Star Line as opposed to Cunard?’
‘I can answer that in one word, Your Lordship: association.’ The American’s eyes sparkled above a brown handlebar moustache. ‘Folks will associate the name of Titanic with more than luxury. They will remember that, on its very first outing, it stopped to rescue a stricken boat, showing beneficial generosity to its fellow man.’
Pirrie’s face reflected distaste, prompting Ismay to intercede.
‘Er… perhaps I can add a little more to Mr Penn’s summary. There is every reason to expect a good deal of publicity at the introduction of a second vessel. Titanic is bigger and better in every way than Olympic. But by the very fact of being second, we do risk the possibility that the event will not be seen as being “newsworthy” to the extent we would wish. I believe that is the right terminology, is it not, Mr Penn?’ The American beamed his approval. ‘Mr Morgan is determined that Titanic’s maiden voyage will make an impact. So, this exercise, as you put it, is a relatively simple way of drawing attention in a manner that will receive universal endorsement.’
‘Simple, you say?’ Pirrie raised a cautionary eyebrow. ‘Speaking of endorsements…’
‘Ah, yes!’ said Ismay. ‘I understand our German friends are happy for one of their ships to tow a smaller one into position, and to accommodate a scratch crew of four to man her from there, until the rendezvous.’
