Pathetic Attempts at Identification.
At the heads of the coffins stood lines of men and women, many of them survivors, looking for relatives and friends. As coffin lids were lifted they crowded close to view the bodies. One lid would be dropped with a low toned ‘No’ and a searcher would raise the lid of the next coffin just dropped by another ahead.
Suddenly a low moan of a man or the muffled scream of a woman broke the silence. ‘O, Mary!’ ‘My husband!’ or some name of endearment was uttered.
A stalwart man bent forward and kissed the forehead of his wife. A woman would fall fainting on the lid of the coffin she had just raised. Thus it went on all day long until forty-eight bodies were identified.
A man would find the bodies of his wife and children. A woman would identify the body of her husband. In the hunt for bodies of the victims there was no distinction of class. Every person, whether finely dressed or roughly clad, took his turn in the line that moved constantly from coffin to coffin, but the great majority of persons were disappointed in their search.
Identifies Salvation Army Victims.
Major J. M. McGillivray of the Salvation Army was at the pier to make identification of members of his band who had perished. He explained that 175 persons connected with the army had sailed on the Empress and only 25 had survived. Of the victims, he identified sixteen, but said that many were so badly disfigured that it was not possible to recognize them.
While stories of premonitions are always told after every disaster, McGillivray told a story about Mrs Nettice Simcoe, a major in the army, that could not be ignored.
‘Mrs Simcoe told me on the morning that the Empress sailed,’ he said, ‘that the night before she had dreamed about crowds of people in mourning. She told the story to several members of the army at breakfast, and as a result of her story several army men did not sail.’
Furthermore, Edward Gray, solo cornetist, had a similar premonition. As a result, he made his will and left it with his fiancée.
In addition to the 188 bodies recovered here today, twenty-one had been identified at Rimouski and shipped to the homes of relatives. This makes 209 bodies recovered out of a total of 957 passengers. The probability is that the remainder never will be recovered, for the current of the St. Lawrence will sweep them out into the Atlantic.
Tayte had to swallow the lump in his throat when he’d finished reading. He knew his imagination could not come close to the horror experienced by the passengers and crew of the Empress of Ireland towards the end of her last voyage.
Women victims found stabbed. Men with knives gripped in their hands . . . The obvious connotations were unthinkable.
Tayte screwed his face up as he wondered what he would have done under such circumstances. Could he bring himself to kill someone he loved, to spare that person the horror and suffering that might otherwise ensue? He shook his head to dispel the terrifying images those words had trapped inside his head. A moment later he snapped his laptop shut and stood up, suddenly craving some fresh air and an open space. He checked his watch as he collected his things together and put them away. It was almost three. He figured he had time for a quick stroll by the river before heading back to his hotel to meet Davina.
The lounge bar at the Holiday Inn was modern and spacious, with alternating brown and white leather seating and accents of apple green. The floor-to-ceiling windows were bright with sunlight, giving the interior an airy feel. Tayte entered at a pace, knowing he was running close to twenty minutes late. When he saw Davina, he slowed down, not wanting to arrive out of breath, and he immediately noticed that she’d come dressed for dinner, in heels and a knee-length black dress. They greeted one another, and Tayte set his briefcase down by the seat next to hers.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Tayte said, still breathing harder than he wanted to be. ‘I got stuck into some research when I got back. You know how it is.’ He noticed that her highball glass was almost empty. ‘Can I get you another drink?’
‘Thank you,’ Davina said. She finished her drink and handed it to Tayte to take back to the bar. ‘Gin and tonic with ice and lemon, and don’t worry about being late. I’m sure you had a good reason.’ She seemed to stare at Tayte then. A moment later she smiled and pointed to the left side of her mouth. ‘You’ve got something on your face. Is that chocolate?’
Tayte felt his cheeks flush as he wiped it off with the back of his hand. ‘I have some in my briefcase if you’d like one,’ he said, more out of embarrassment than anything else.
‘No, I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘Yes, of course you are. I’ll just get us that drink.’
Tayte returned a few minutes later, set Davina’s drink down and followed his Jack Daniels into his seat. They touched glasses, and then they both began to speak at the same time. They laughed about it, and Tayte settled back with his glass.
‘Go on,’ he said, still smiling, thinking how much more relaxed he felt in Davina’s company than when he’d first met her. ‘Ladies first.’
‘Oh, I do like a gentleman,’ Davina said. ‘I was going to ask how your day was. Turn up anything good?’
‘You could say that. A few things in fact.’ Tayte reached into his briefcase and showed Davina the photographs of Alice that Lady Metcalfe had let him hold on to. ‘It’s proof that Alice and my client’s grandmother were one and the same person,’ he added, once he’d finished explaining how he came by them.
‘You must be very pleased,’ Davina said, ‘and I’m sure your client will be thrilled.’
Tayte nodded, subconsciously chewing at his lower lip, knowing there were still gaps in the story he hoped to take back to America.
‘You don’t look very pleased,’ Davina said. ‘What is it?’
Tayte snapped out of his thoughts and gave voice to them. ‘I want to know why Alice feigned her death when the Empress sank. It’s been puzzling me since I realised she must have found a way to undo the mess she was in. She was all set to return to England, but something happened after the ship set off to change that. I’ve formed a few ideas. I even have one pretty sound theory, but I can’t prove anything.’
‘Well, let’s hear it,’ Davina said. ‘You never know, it might lead to something.’
‘Henry Stilwell,’ Tayte said. ‘Alice’s husband. I’ve been wondering where he’d been through all this—why he hadn’t boarded the Empress with Alice, and why they weren’t sharing a cabin on the voyage. I’ve held the opinion that someone like Alice wouldn’t have spied on her country without good reason, and I’ve found no such reason. She came from a respectable, patriotic family. She had no motive that I can see to have spied against her country. And yet, I’ve seen the proof that tells me she did, so I have to assume she was forced.’
‘By the Germans,’ Davina said.
‘Yes, and with a husband and a young family, I don’t think it would have been too difficult to find ways to persuade her.’
‘So, do you think Henry wasn’t able to board the ship with Alice because he’d been kidnapped?’
‘I did, but now I’m not so sure. Since leaving the dockyard this afternoon, I’d come to think that Henry was travelling in a different cabin to Alice’s, with this man called Albrecht from the telegram, because he was Albrecht’s prisoner. Henry, then, was Alice’s get-out-of-jail-free card if you like, because once they reached England, he would be able to explain everything. I figured that’s what must have changed that night.’
‘Because Henry died when the ship sank?’
‘That’s one possibility, but I’ve also come to think that Alice had lost all hope by that point.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ve looked into Henry Stilwell some more. I’d only had call to cover the basics about Alice’s husband before I left home—just enough to know who his parents were and that they lived in New York. Henry was an only child, and with the two Stilw
ell children having been adopted by Alice’s parents, there were no descendants in America I could go and see. When I got back to my room earlier, I started over with the US census reports and found Henry listed in 1910, age twenty-six, son of Randall Stilwell, who was the head of the household at the time. From there I went back to 1900, and that’s when things got interesting. You see in 1900, Henry’s grandmother was still alive and living with the family, only she wasn’t listed as Stilwell. She was listed as Steinwall.’
‘German?’
‘A surname of German origin, certainly, but I wanted to be sure, so I went further back. The 1890 census shows that her husband, Henry’s grandfather, was still alive and was then the head of the household, so presumably he’d died or had otherwise left by 1900. His name was also Steinwall, and his place of birth was shown as Germany, confirming it.’
‘So Henry was of German descent,’ Davina said, and Tayte could see she was thinking over the implications, just as he had when he’d first made the discovery.
‘It was common for foreign immigrants settling in America to change their names to avoid prejudice, even before the Great War, particularly for families in business as the Steinwalls were. It could mean nothing, of course, but Henry’s Germanic roots are a hard fact to ignore.’
‘It has to mean something,’ Davina said. ‘Suppose Henry and this Albrecht were associates? Perhaps Alice had boarded the Empress hoping to be reunited with her husband, only to be betrayed by him.’
‘That’s an interesting theory, too,’ Tayte said. ‘And one which might certainly have dashed Alice’s hopes if she believed her husband would corroborate her story.’ Tayte finished his drink. ‘But it is just a theory. Right now I don’t see how we can know for sure.’
A slow smile spread across Davina’s face. ‘I think once you’ve heard what I turned up today, you’ll agree that it’s more than just a theory.’
Tayte was more intrigued than ever now to find out what she had discovered, but he thought they would need another drink to go with the explanation, and both their glasses were empty.
‘Hold that thought,’ he said. ‘Let me get us another drink first.’
When Tayte came back from the bar, Davina’s handbag was open, and there were two folded pieces of A4 paper on the table, which Tayte supposed were the results of Davina’s research.
‘Phoebe Dodson,’ Davina said. She sat up and eyed Tayte seriously. ‘I’ve been looking into her most of the day, and I strongly believe she was murdered for the notebook mentioned in that telegram.’
‘Murdered?’ The word struck a familiar chord in Tayte’s ear.
‘Yes, and it also seems clear to me now that my husband was killed for the same reason. Because someone wants this notebook—now as then.’
‘Two murders motivated by the same object a hundred years apart?’ Tayte said, as much to himself as to Davina. He thought back over some of his more adventurous assignments and knew it wouldn’t be the first time. ‘What did you find out?’
‘I began in the usual way, looking for Phoebe’s details in the birth, marriage and death indexes. From the International Genealogical Index I found that she was born in England, right here in Kent, which piqued my interest. I could find no record of marriage, so I moved on. Then I saw when she died.’ Davina paused to sip her drink. ‘It was in 1914.’
Tayte’s interest had more than piqued. He sat forward. ‘When in 1914?’
Davina looked at him assuredly, as if to suggest that what she was about to tell him would knock him for six. ‘Phoebe died on the 2nd of June 1914.’
The information certainly knocked Tayte back into his seat. He scrunched his brow, scarcely able to believe what Davina had just told him. ‘That’s just four days after the telegram was sent.’
‘I know, and I couldn’t believe it was simply a coincidence, so I kept digging.’
‘Do you know how she died?’
Davina nodded. ‘There wasn’t time to wait for a copy of her full death certificate from the relevant authorities in Quebec.’
‘The Directeur de l’état civil,’ Tayte said. ‘I’ll put a request in anyway, for my records.’
‘Yes, good idea. It should also confirm who Phoebe’s father was. Unless Lord Thomas Ashcroft was shrewd enough to keep his name off it.’
‘Thomas Ashcroft? Archibald’s father?’
‘The very same. At least, I believe he must have been Phoebe’s father. I turned to the newspaper archives once I felt I’d gone as far as I could with the various genealogical indexes. I thought that if the timing of Phoebe’s death was connected to the telegram, her death would likely be unnatural and thus newsworthy. At least if not, then I thought I might find an obituary in the newspaper archives—which I did.’ Davina reached forward and picked up one of the pieces of paper she’d previously set out. ‘Here it is,’ she added, handing it to Tayte.
Tayte unfolded the sheet of paper and saw a printed screenshot of the original copy from the obituaries section of North America’s oldest newspaper, the Quebec Chronicle, which Tayte now knew of as the Chronicle Telegraph, following a merger between the two newspapers in 1925. It was dated 15 June 1914. He read it and quickly discovered that the obituary was not for one person, but two: Phoebe Dodson and her mother Irene, both having died on the same day.
‘See who was in attendance,’ Davina said.
Tayte scanned ahead and saw the connection. ‘Thomas Ashcroft,’ he said. ‘So it’s possible, even likely, that Phoebe Dodson was Archibald’s half sister.’
‘Which explains why Alice went to Quebec when she went on the run.’
Tayte gave a thoughtful nod as he lingered over the obituary. ‘Two deaths on the same day,’ he mused. ‘The plot thickens, doesn’t it?’
‘Perhaps not too much,’ Davina said. ‘I kept digging in the newspaper archives, and it didn’t take long to discover the cause of death.’ She handed Tayte the other piece of paper. ‘It’s a bit of a shocker.’
Tayte unfolded it and studied it in silence for several seconds. This copy was from a newspaper Tayte was less familiar with: The Quebec Daily Mercury. It was dated 3 June 1914—the day after Phoebe’s death. He read the headline aloud. ‘BLAZE AT CHARLESBOURG HOME KILLS TWO.’ He read on and his face had drained of expression by the time he’d finished. The report was a detailed and harrowing account of the events that had led to the discovery of the charred remains of two women found huddled together in an upstairs closet while their house burned around them.
Tayte heaved a thoughtful sigh. ‘Did you find anything else—anything to suggest it was arson? There’s a gap of almost two weeks between the fire and the funeral. I’m sure there must have been an inquest.’
Davina shook her head. ‘No, that’s all I could find. When you put it all together, though, it looks pretty conclusive, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’d say it does,’ Tayte said, making a mental note to have a look for an inquest report himself before he turned in for the night.
He thought about Frank Saxby then. ‘As well as looking into Henry Stilwell, I also looked into Frank Saxby some more before I came down from my room. It’s why I was late.’
‘What did you find?’
‘Not much beyond what little we already know, but what else I did find is interesting. According to the indexes, Francis Edwin Saxby, as he was christened, died August 5th 1914—the day after Britain declared war on Germany.’
‘That is interesting,’ Davina said. ‘Do you know how he died?’
‘Not yet, but I’ve requested a copy of his death certificate. Maybe it will tell us something, although it’s going to take time to come through.’
Tayte reached into his briefcase and took out the Metcalfe family-and-friends photograph. Studying it again, he was reminded of Oscar Scanlon and the failing business partnership Davina had told him about, and of the shoe factory fire that
had taken several lives. He thought that if Saxby was behind the death of Phoebe and her mother, then such a modus operandi was perhaps not unfamiliar to him—not if the accusations of causing the factory blaze for the insurance money were true.
‘You see now why I think Phoebe was murdered for the notebook mentioned in the telegram,’ Davina said. ‘And why my earlier theory that Alice was betrayed by her husband might hold some truth.’
Tayte didn’t need Davina to spell it out for him. ‘Given the gravity of her situation,’ he said. ‘Alice wouldn’t have given Phoebe’s details to anyone other than Henry, and certainly not to Albrecht. But it was Albrecht who sent the telegram to Saxby. Ergo, Henry must have told him after getting the information from Alice.’ He slapped his palms on his armrests. ‘And that’s what changed after the Empress left Quebec. Alice was betrayed by the one person who could have saved her—her own husband, whose allegiance clearly rested in his deep rooted love for Germany over the love he felt for his family.’
It upset Tayte to think that a man could put anything before his family like that. It made him think about his birth mother again, and the reason she had abandoned him. ‘For the child’s own protection,’ was all she had said. Clearly she thought him to be in some kind of danger all the while he was with her, and he now began to see Alice’s situation in a similar light.
But why had Alice never gone back for her children?
Tayte figured there must have been plenty of good, if painful, reasons to Alice’s mind, and he supposed now that that was probably also true of his own mother, unless of course his own mother, for reasons he didn’t like to think about, had been unable to return for him.
‘What about the timing?’ Davina said, cutting into Tayte’s thoughts. ‘How do you suppose Saxby could have reached Quebec so quickly? The fire only happened a few days after the telegram was sent. He can’t have taken a ship in time, and transatlantic flight wasn’t an option then, was it?’
‘No, but I don’t believe Saxby would have tried to go himself,’ Tayte said. ‘And neither did he have to. If my thinking around Saxby and his notebook is on the right track, I’d say he already had a network of people to call upon from all over the world, ready and willing to do whatever it took to get that notebook back to him.’
The Lost Empress Page 27
