Girard smiled, exaggerating the lines on his face. ‘It sounds as though you have a fascinating puzzle to solve, Mr Tayte. Let’s take a look at those records, shall we? I’ve already prepared some information I’m sure you’ll find of interest. Perhaps it will shed some light on the matter. But then again, what I have to show you might just deepen the mystery further.’
Tayte and Girard went back into the Site historique maritime building where they had first met, which was itself a monument to the Empress of Ireland, with its twin glass light portals shaped like funnels rising from the roof, half of the building leaning to starboard as the Empress had leaned after she was struck. Girard took Tayte through a bright and airy space, past the exhibition visitors and the many displays and information boards, to a room that was not open to the general public. They exchanged smiles and nods with a female member of staff as they passed her and went inside.
‘Please, have a seat,’ Girard said, indicating a chair by the desk that was further into the office-like room.
Tayte put his jacket over the back of the chair and sat down. His eyes followed Girard as he went to a cabinet and returned a few moments later carrying a clear plastic folder. He sat in the chair beside Tayte and set the folder down on the desk in front of them.
‘I have several things to show you,’ Girard said. He slid a sheet of paper closer to Tayte. ‘This is from the second-class passenger list for the Empress of Ireland’s last voyage, confirming information you will already have seen on the Internet.’
Tayte studied the familiar record, following Girard’s bony finger to Alice Stilwell’s name. His eyes scanned across to the word ‘lost’ on the right, and then to the blank space where other entries had ‘body identified’ written in.
‘This I think you have not seen,’ Girard said, ‘or I’m sure you would already have mentioned the anomaly it represents.’
He slid another record in front of Tayte. It was another extract from the passenger list, this time for first-class passengers. Tayte saw the name before Girard pointed it out.
‘Henry Stilwell,’ Tayte said, furrowing his brow and noting that, like Alice, he was recorded as lost, his body unrecovered.
‘I thought that would interest you, Mr Tayte. I’m sure you’ll be able to confirm whether Henry Stilwell was related to Alice. Maybe that will shed some light on why they were travelling in different classes.’
‘It only makes me more confused,’ Tayte said. ‘Henry Stilwell was the name of Alice Stilwell’s husband.’
Tayte’s focus so far had been on Alice and her side of the family. He knew whom she was married to—and more besides—but he hadn’t delved into the lives of anyone else just yet. When he’d seen Alice’s name on the passenger list as the only Stilwell travelling in second class, he hadn’t thought to look for other family members aboard. The lists were ordered alphabetically, showing members of the same families together, as expected. Alice had appeared to be travelling alone.
Girard looked pleased with his find. ‘Of course, it cannot be ruled out that our two Stilwells may not be related at all, but it’s a curious thing, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Tayte said. ‘It’s not a common name. What are the odds of another Henry Stilwell being aboard the same voyage?’
‘I would say they were very slim.’
‘As would I,’ Tayte agreed. ‘But why would husband and wife be travelling in different classes? Why didn’t they share a cabin on the same deck?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps they had fallen out over something.’
‘Maybe,’ Tayte said, wondering at the reasons and drawing no obvious conclusion other than that this new piece of information had indeed deepened the mystery of Alice Stilwell’s life, as Girard had earlier supposed it might. Both Alice and Henry were recorded as ‘lost,’ and that set Tayte thinking about the likelihood of neither body being found.
‘Do you know how many bodies went unrecovered?’
‘A great many,’ Girard said. Then, as if knowing where Tayte’s question was leading, he answered it for him. ‘Nothing can really be drawn from the fact that neither of the Stilwells were found, Mr Tayte. Not when you consider that only around one-fifth of all those who died were identified. The statistics show that it was far more typical not to be found. Many bodies would have been carried out into the Atlantic, and many remained within the ship itself and are now buried beneath the silt on the riverbed.’
Girard slid another piece of paper towards Tayte. ‘I don’t know if this will be of any interest to you, but I thought I’d show it to you just in case. It shows which cabin Henry Stilwell was travelling in. Perhaps more importantly, it shows whom he was sharing that cabin with.’
Tayte scanned the information. ‘Albrecht, Mr W,’ he said, noting that the man was also listed as lost. The information meant little more to him than that Henry Stilwell had shared a cabin on that voyage with another man, with whom he may or may not have been acquainted. He suspected the former and wrote the details in his notebook.
‘That’s about everything I managed to find for you,’ Girard said. ‘I hope it has been of some use.’
‘I’m sure it has,’ Tayte said, considering that the trip had been very useful indeed.
That Alice’s husband was in all probability aboard the ship with her, and in particular that he was sharing a cabin on a different deck with a man named Albrecht, led Tayte to suspect that it was of some importance to the reason why Alice had chosen to leave her old life behind when the opportunity presented itself. But there were other facts about Alice, about her family, that he just could not get past. The children pictured in the locket were Alice Stilwell’s children—of that he was certain. He had already identified the birth records of Chester and Charlotte Stilwell, who were born in Kent, England, in 1910 and 1912, respectively, the son and daughter of Alice and Henry. The thing he couldn’t get past—despite his own situation—was how any mother could wilfully choose to abandon her children. What could have happened in her young life that was so terrible that she felt she had no other choice? Having been abandoned by his own mother when he was just a few months old, Tayte’s need to understand the reasons made the assignment all the more personal to him.
Turning to Girard, Tayte smiled and thanked him. He stood up and collected the records together. ‘Can I keep these?’
‘Of course,’ Girard said, rising from his seat with Tayte. ‘The copies are for you.’
Tayte lifted his briefcase onto the desk and slid the records inside between his laptop and all the other information he’d gathered so far. They made for the door, and as Girard opened it, he paused.
‘I wonder whether perhaps you would contact me again once your assignment is finished. I should like to know how it all turns out.’
‘Sure. I’d be delighted to.’
‘And do you know where your investigation will take you next?’
Tayte knew where he was going next long before he arrived in Canada. If he was to have any chance of unravelling the secret life of Alice Stilwell for his client, he had to go and talk to the family.
‘I’m booked on an overnight flight to England,’ he said, trying hard not to think about getting on another plane again so soon. Losing both of his adoptive parents in a plane crash when he was a teenager had put him off flying in ways he knew he would never fully overcome, but this time the degree of anxiety he always felt whenever he thought about boarding an aeroplane was mollified by the idea of seeing Professor Jean Summer again.
Their whirlwind romance had blossomed in the wake of the murder of the man who had brought them together, and it had come to an abrupt pause as soon as Tayte read through the contents of the safety deposit box Marcus had bequeathed to him in his will. Tayte hadn’t seen Jean since that day. He’d been so excited to have a lead on his own ancestry again after so long that he’d returned to Washington and gone deep into his o
wn family history research, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. Tayte had so much to tell her about the recent discoveries he’d made—that is, if she still wanted to see him after the way he’d treated her since he was last in England.
‘I’ve managed to locate a few descendants of Alice’s family,’ he said, steering his thoughts back to the assignment at hand. ‘I’m sure they’re going to be a valuable source of information once I can get to speak to them.’
He thought about the calls he’d made and the messages he’d left, letting people know he was coming and why. He hoped it might ease his introduction once he arrived, and his client had let him hold on to her grandmother’s locket with the photograph of the Stilwell children inside, which he thought might also help. He had a photograph of Alice Dixon, too. His client had told him it was one of only a very few early photographs she’d seen of her grandmother. It was a faded black and white postcard portrait that Tayte thought had been taken around 1930, when Alice would have been forty years old—the same age he was now. He imagined that photographs of Alice were sure to exist in England. If he could get to see one, he would be able to confirm beyond doubt that Alice Dixon and Alice Stilwell were the same person.
Emile Girard followed Tayte back out into the exhibition. ‘I’ll wish you a safe flight to England then, Mr Tayte, and I shall look forward to hearing from you again someday.’
Tayte thanked him and was left standing with his briefcase beside a display cabinet, looking through his dark-haired reflection at the first artefact to have been recovered from the wreck of the Empress of Ireland after its rediscovery in 1964: a steel double pulley that was orange with rust. He always thought it curious how such inanimate objects could form a connection to the past. He knew it was all in his head, but he felt it just the same as he stood looking at it. He wished he could touch it—feel the flaking rust beneath his fingertips. It had been a part of the ship Alice had boarded a hundred years ago. He wondered then whether she had touched it, or used any of the china or glass dishes he could see in the other cabinets. His thoughts began to drift, and he wondered again who Alice Stilwell was and why she had felt the need to escape her past life so completely as to begin it over again.
Chapter Two
South Holland, Netherlands. Monday, 13 April 1914.
The Stilwell family was staying at the Hotel Des Indes on Lange Voorhout, a former nineteenth-century palace in the heart of The Hague. Alice shut off the basin taps in her room and watched the steam dissipate, thinking it a very modern establishment to have hot and cold running water and a bath for every room; there was even a hydraulic elevator that she had been informed worked by the pressure of water from the North Sea. Although it was rare to accompany Henry on one of his business trips, Alice had readily agreed that it would be good for the children to spend more time with their father, and Henry had been keen for Chester to see more of the textiles business he hoped his son would one day succeed him in—although as Chester was only four, Alice supposed there would be plenty of time for that. To Alice, who was still in her early twenties, time seemed as a boundless entity that spring, caught up as she was in the dream that had become her family life since meeting Henry five years ago.
She went back to the dressing table, and for the umpteenth time she readjusted the wide-brimmed hat she was wearing. She frowned at her reflection and flicked at her chestnut hair again. Maybe that was it. After all, it was not the hat that was new, but the hairstyle beneath it. At Henry’s insistence, and much to her parents’ disapproval, she had had her hair styled short because, according to Henry, it was the height of fashion in New York City, and if they were going to settle their lives in America, then they should make every effort to keep up with the times. Alice wasn’t particularly keen on the look, but Henry had said it suited her very well, so she went along with it more to please her husband than herself. She didn’t mind half as much as her hats seemed to.
‘Darling!’
It was Henry, calling from the adjoining room where he’d been waiting more patiently with the children than she felt she had any right to expect of him. There was a faint knock at the door, and in the mirror Alice saw it nudge open—and there he was, standing tall in the frame, freshly shaved in his light-grey sack suit and felt Homburg. She thought he looked as dapper as ever she had seen him. He was smiling as he spoke, his soft American accent as alluring to her now as it had been the first day they met.
‘Whatever’s keeping you?’ he said. ‘If we don’t leave soon, I shall be late for my meeting with Mr Van Heusen.’
Alice swung around as Chester and Charlotte followed their father into the room: Chester in the sailor’s suit her own father had bought for him, and Charlotte in white lace. They were holding hands, or rather Chester was holding Charlotte’s hand, having taken it upon himself to look after his younger sister because, with Henry away so often, Chester had come to see it as his duty.
‘I’m afraid it’s this hat,’ Alice said. ‘I can’t decide whether it looks best with the brim tilted to the left or to the right.’
‘You look lovely, Mummy,’ Chester said, and Charlotte just smiled and nodded.
‘Yes, I’m sure it looks wonderful either way,’ Henry added, a little impatiently Alice thought. He stepped closer, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet as he checked the time on his pocket watch. ‘We really must be going.’
‘Can we play in the park?’ Chester asked.
‘I’m sure we can,’ Alice said, looking to Henry for confirmation.
Henry squatted until his eyes were level with the children’s. ‘First I thought you might like to see what keeps your father away from home so often,’ he said. ‘Then afterwards we can do whatever you wish.’
‘Even sailing?’ Chester asked, his face full of hope.
Henry laughed as he got to his feet again. ‘Sailing?’ He paused as though considering the idea. ‘I don’t see why not, as long as we go out first thing in the morning. I’m not expected in Rotterdam until the afternoon. I’m sure you’ll like Rotterdam. It has the largest seaport in Europe, and you know what that means.’
‘More boats!’ Chester said, wide eyed.
Their rooms were on the first floor, but they rode the elevator to the lobby, more for its novelty value than convenience, because the children were fascinated by it. Alice hadn’t said so, but she was glad she didn’t have to take the stairs to the lobby. Henry had bought her a purple-and-cream-striped dress for the trip, and like her new hairstyle, the appropriately named ‘hobble’ dress was all the rage in New York. It was fitted to her knees where a purple band wrapped around them to intentionally limit movement. As the elevator attendant opened the cage for them and the Stilwell family stepped inside, Alice thought that if they had taken the stairs she would most likely have embarrassed herself by falling into the lobby rather than arriving gracefully as intended.
With the attendant’s permission, Henry lifted Charlotte so she could help move the crank handle to take them down, and moments later the bell pinged and the attendant pulled the cage door open. Alice held back and watched her family go on ahead of her. She smiled to herself and silently wished they could remain together like this forever, but she knew they would only be in Holland for a few more days. After that, they would spend several more days with her parents in England, and then they would return to America. As much as she tried to accept it, she still felt so out of place and alone in New York whenever Henry was away, despite the children and having Henry’s parents living close by.
She watched her children run from the elevator as soon as the way was clear, and she was pleased to see that Henry soon had a strong hold on their hands. Even so, he lurched forward with them, and Alice smiled and thought how glad she was that Henry was not as strict with their children as her own father had been with her. They were soon in the middle of the lobby, which was richly decorated with marble pillars and red stuccoed walls illum
inated by soft golden lighting. Alice made no attempt to keep up. She knew it was hopeless to try in her hobble dress, and she thought it too fine a morning to rush anywhere. She would be glad of her parasol today.
When Henry and the children reached the doors, Henry looked back to Alice and smiled at her with a look that was as much to say, ‘Whatever can I do?’ Alice would have liked to be on Henry’s arm, but she didn’t mind. This trip was for the children, and she imagined there would be plenty of time for them to steal a moment or two together, perhaps in the park later, when their children could run and dance circles around them until the little darlings felt giddy. She watched the doorman hold the door open for them as they went outside, so full of life and energy that it sparked Alice into quickening her step.
Outside, she saw colourful painted buildings, and parked before them were several black motorcars in stark contrast. She wondered if one of the vehicles was for them, and then she saw Henry and the children further along the street. She followed after them and saw that another car had pulled up. It was a sizeable cream-coloured machine with bright chrome headlights, wire wheels, and whitewall tyres, which she thought was more to Henry’s liking. Two men got out, and Henry and the children stopped walking. One of the men put a hand on her son’s shoulder, and the gesture struck Alice as being far too forward.
‘Excuse me, madam.’
The voice startled Alice, and she wheeled around. She had to catch her breath when she saw the fair-haired man who had spoken. He towered above her and would even have towered above Henry were he beside her. The man touched his cap, smiled amiably and in the Dutch accent she had heard so many times since her arrival in Holland, he simply asked, ‘Do you know the way to Alexanderstraat?’
The Lost Empress Page 2
