The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  My heart plummeted at the thought. I forced a smile. ‘It’s tempting, Mr Widener – and I thank you for the compliment. But I fear my wife would divorce me!’

  Wishing Bruce could have kept quiet, I bade them goodnight. Best get done, I said to myself. It was almost eleven o’clock and I was tired. One deck down, and a quick check of the Restaurant – staff setting up for tomorrow – and Café Parisienne. Through to the 2nd Class Smoke Room, typically quiet with just a few men at the bar and a table of dedicated card players in the corner; then down to the deck below. The 3rd Class public rooms were lively – there were even children running about in the Common Room, where a fiddler was playing some foot-tapping music. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly – no trouble there.

  On my way up in the electric elevator, I felt odd, suddenly. Light-headed, dizzy. I glanced into the mirror and saw a grey, gaunt, dead-eyed image. An icy chill swept over me, followed by a wave of heat. I thought I would faint. When I dared look again, I saw my real face, staring back in alarm.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ The boy was holding back the gate.

  ‘Perfectly,’ I replied, but my steps were unsteady as I emerged by the Palm Court.

  I forced myself outside, gasping for breath and shivering uncontrollably. Ridiculous, I said to myself: imagination working overtime. Loosening my collar, I began to feel a little better. Fatigue, no doubt. Ellie was right. This relentless pace was no good, she’d been saying that for months, urging me to rest as much as possible. But every hour at sea was a working hour, even sleeping. And I didn’t seem able to get much of that.

  After a minute or two, feeling better, I remembered the odd little group I’d seen earlier. My feelings of unease were suddenly focused. Back along the deck I saw the Lounge was brightly lit but empty, while the other window seemed darker than before. Instinct told me something was wrong. I heard a muffled cry, and through the window spied some kind of disturbance. At once I hastened indoors.

  A woman was prostrate in her chair, the others crowding round. They all turned in the half-light, like guilty children caught in some unpleasant game.

  In the chair I recognized Mrs Burgoyne, pearls awry, mouth open, head lolling back. For a moment I thought she was dead, but then I touched her neck, felt a pulse racing beneath my cold fingers. Her breasts heaved. She was breathing.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She fainted,’ one of the women said, sounding as though she might be on the verge of it herself.

  ‘I can see that. But I heard someone cry out. Was it Mrs Burgoyne?’ Answered by a chorus of affirmatives, I asked why, but only Frank Millet replied, and that was just to give a flippant, ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘One of you ladies hold her head while we lift her feet… Yes, that’s right,’ I said as Mrs Carver took the lead, Frank Millet pushing a sofa up close. It took three of us, but we managed to lay her reasonably flat. ‘Stay with her – all of you – while I call the doctor.’

  I hurried to the telephone along the corridor. O’Loughlin answered on the second ring. ‘Reading Room, Billy – would you come up? Mrs Burgoyne’s had some kind of fit and seems to have fainted. Not sure what’s been going on…’

  What Frank Millet’s role was, I thought as I made my way back, I couldn’t begin to guess. But Stead was bound to be at the heart of it.

  Mrs Burgoyne was half-conscious now and weeping. Every now and then she gave little shrieks, shaking her head and fending people off. Millet and another man – big and owl-like behind his spectacles – looked on, distinctly uncomfortable, while Stead leaned against the fireplace as though in his own front room.

  A moment later, Billy arrived. Setting down his doctor’s bag, he took her hands and gently chafed them. ‘Come now, Mrs Burgoyne,’ he murmured, checking her pulse, ‘back to your cabin, I think. Can you stand, my dear? It will be so much easier if we can make you comfortable.’ With no discernible response, he opened a bottle of sal volatile and wafted it beneath her nose.

  She came to at once, her eyes wide and terrified. She took one look at Billy’s kind face and started shrieking in earnest, hitting out at all around her. Reaching for his bag, Billy asked Mrs Carver to stay and the others to leave. Realizing he was going to sedate the hysterical woman, I ushered them out of the Reading Room and into the Lounge. While they hovered, guiltily, I called one of the stewards and asked for some tea.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ At my firm suggestion they took chairs around me. ‘I should like you to tell me what was going on before I arrived.’

  The two ladies in black I recognized as friends of Colonel Gracie – sisters, both in their middle years. They gave me their names, as did Mr Futrelle, the owlish-looking gentleman in spectacles. Stead sank back in his chair, eyes veiled like someone exhausted, while Frank Millet, on the edge of his, said apologetically, ‘Well, this might sound a little odd, Captain, but we were having a séance…’

  Appalled, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before replying. ‘And who, pray, was conducting this séance?’

  Stead spoke then. ‘I was.’

  Hardly a surprise. We had never met before this voyage, but Mr Stead had impinged upon my life many times. Almost from the first time I met Ellie, her fears for me had been racked up by his sensational tales. Since she never hesitated to inform me of his latest nonsense, I was very much aware of his stance on spiritualism. As I’d made clear to McElroy when I first saw Stead’s name on the passenger list, I wanted no truck with that kind of thing. With an effort, I controlled myself, disciplined my words.

  ‘Would you care to explain what prompted this exercise?’

  Normally self-confident, he seemed unusually reticent, as though having difficulty with words. ‘There was a discussion. Yesterday, I believe…’

  One of the ladies broke in. ‘It wasn’t Mr Stead’s fault,’ she said nervously. ‘We came across on the Olympic – you won’t remember us, sir, the weather was very bad, Eloise and I hardly left our staterooms. We came over for our sister’s funeral…’ She worried her necklace, looking so distraught I felt my anger soften. ‘Some strange things happened in England, and we, er…we wondered if Mr Stead could help us.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘To find out what was wrong. We felt – Eloise and I – that our dear, departed sister was trying to tell us something.’

  ‘And was she?’

  Miserably, she shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Mrs Burgoyne screamed, and…’

  Frank Millet broke in. ‘It was very cold, suddenly.’ Futrelle agreed and said, ‘The temperature dropped sharply, within a minute, no more.’ The ladies nodded.

  ‘Anything else? I’m wondering what it was that made Mrs Burgoyne so hysterical.’ When no one answered, I said, ‘Something must have happened.’

  ‘She saw what I saw,’ Stead murmured. ‘At least, I believe so.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  He glanced at the ladies. ‘I’d rather not say just now. I doubt it would be helpful.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, taking his point. ‘But you’ve caused harm this evening, Mr Stead. To Mrs Burgoyne if no one else. Let there be no more dabbling in this kind of thing – at least aboard this ship. What you do ashore is entirely up to you – but I won’t have it here. Is that understood?’ I looked at him particularly, but they all nodded.

  ‘Perhaps we gentlemen could discuss this tomorrow? Shall we say nine o’clock, after breakfast? In the meantime, I urge you to keep it to yourselves.’

  As I stood up, Frank Millet made to follow me out. I cut him short. ‘In the morning, Mr Millet, sir – I’m sure you understand. Right now, I must consult with Dr O’Loughlin.’

  I turned away, and by the door came face to face with Mrs Carver. For a moment our eyes locked. Hers were blue. My anger drowned in a wave of astonishment.

  Clearly troubled, she stepped back and dropped her gaze. ‘I do apologize, sir,’ she murmured. ‘What we did – it was foolish.’

  I realized I was
blocking her path and moved aside. ‘It’s Mrs Carver, isn’t it?’ As she nodded, I bowed and introduced myself before asking if she had the number of Mrs Burgoyne’s stateroom.

  ‘I can’t remember the number – let me show you.’ And before I could protest, she was walking ahead of me, down the stairs.

  Some detached quarter of my mind noticed she was neither as young nor as slight as I’d imagined. She was taller than Dorothea and her figure in the fashionably cut gown was fuller, more rounded.

  ‘Did you come down with the Doctor?’ I asked. ‘How was Mrs Burgoyne then?’

  Mrs Carver paused on the half-landing and looked up. ‘She was calmer, but still very upset.’ I began to say something reassuring, but she broke in with another apology. ‘I’m truly sorry for what happened. If only I’d realized…’

  ‘It can hardly be your fault,’ I said. ‘Surely Mr Stead…’

  She shook her head. ‘No – I asked him to do it. The dear ladies were upset about their sister, and I thought he could help.’

  That took the wind from me. ‘Mr Stead is a friend of yours?’

  ‘An acquaintance. We were introduced in London.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ But I didn’t, not at all. I took another step down. ‘I’d like to know a little more about what happened this evening. Could you tell me about it tomorrow?’

  Glancing over her shoulder, she said, ‘Really, sir, there’s very little to tell.’ Her profile – it was her profile that was so like Dorothea’s.

  ‘However little that might be,’ I said as we reached the foot of the stairs, ‘it would be helpful.’

  I followed her down the carpeted alleyway with staterooms to either side. She stopped outside a door at the far end. I tried again, lightly this time. ‘I promise you, Mrs Carver, coffee with me will be no High Court enquiry!’

  For some reason that made her smile. I felt my heart skip a beat as she softened and agreed to meet me in the Lounge at 11:30. Watching her as she moved away, only then did it register that she was English, not American. My mind racing with questions, I took a moment before tapping on Mrs Burgoyne’s door.

  ~~~

  O’Loughlin stepped out to meet me. ‘She’s quiet now,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve given her a sedative. Sure and she’ll be away with the fairies in no time.’

  ‘Is she still awake?’ As he nodded, I asked if she’d said anything. For a moment he frowned, as though I’d asked him to betray a patient’s confidence. ‘Look, Billy, I know they were having a séance, but no one’s confessed to what actually happened. If she’s said anything about what gave her the fright, I’d like to know what it was. It may be important.’ Aware of his reluctance, I said, ‘Unless you think it’s dangerous, I’d like to hear her story now. By tomorrow it could be different.’

  With that he opened the door and we went in. The stateroom was done out in traditional style, with twin beds, a dressing table, and a sofa that looked somehow out of place. When I entered, Mrs Burgoyne’s companion was seated there, book in hand, while Adelaide was in bed, propped up by pillows, her eyes closed. The lights were dimmed, and for the first time I saw something of the girl she’d been, and felt a surge of sympathy.

  Billy took her hand. ‘My dear, I have the Captain with me. You know him, don’t you? Do you feel able to tell him what happened?’

  Her eyes opened, unfocused at first. ‘Cold,’ she said to Billy. ‘It was so cold.’

  ‘Yes, so you said. That must have been alarming.’

  ‘Someone,’ she breathed, ‘in the mist…’ She broke off, gulping, her hands gripping Billy’s convulsively. ‘A figure… couldn’t see who it was… wet through. Hair, dress, running wet…’ Voice rising, she clung to Billy’s arm. ‘It was my sister – I know it was! She drowned off the bayou – I thought she was coming for me!’

  A ripple of ice went down my spine, but Billy was calm as ever. ‘No, my dear, it was just a bad dream. You fell asleep and had a bad dream. That’s all it was, now, a bad dream… Tomorrow you’ll wake up and you’ll have forgotten all about it… ’ Soothed, she subsided at last upon the pillows, closed her eyes and appeared to sleep. Billy turned to me, his jaw set.

  Shaken by that revelation, I hardly knew what to say. Or think. What did it mean?

  Rubbing her arms, the young companion seemed frightened. I went over to her. ‘Please don’t be alarmed, Miss…’ I’d forgotten her name, if ever I knew it. ‘Mrs Burgoyne was with some friends, playing silly parlour games. It seems to have got out of hand. I’ve had words with the people concerned, and believe me, it won’t happen again.’

  She nodded, reminding me again of a little sparrow, all nervous, fluttery movements. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  O’Loughlin was reassuring. ‘Mrs Burgoyne will probably sleep late. When she wakes, she may well think her fright was just a dream – if so, I should leave it at that. You understand me, now?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor, of course.’ She smiled up at him, trust and confidence restored.

  ‘That’s a good girl.’ With that he patted her hand.

  As the door closed behind us, Billy’s frown returned. I waited until we were clear of the staterooms. ‘I knew Marcia – the sister. Thirty years ago.’

  He looked up sharply. ‘Did you? I’m sorry. Did she drown?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. To be honest I’d forgotten her – until Adelaide made herself known to me. But she didn’t say Marcia was dead.’ I hesitated for a moment. ‘Back there, Billy – the séance. Could it be so? Do you think that’s what she saw?’

  ‘Well now, there’s no denying she’s had a bad fright.’ He paused as we reached the stairs. ‘But the mind is a strange creature – who can say how it works? Memory, imagination – a lot of suggestion – we’re all susceptible to some extent.’ He shrugged. ‘Those we’ve loved and lost – somewhere, there’s always a slice of guilt.’

  While I was pondering that, he smiled and turned to go. ‘You want my honest opinion? I’d say he’s a clever fellow, our Mr Stead…’

  15

  It was after midnight when I reached my bed. I read for a while, but not even Arnold Bennett could distract me from the buzzing round of questions. Mrs Carver, persuading Stead to hold a séance… what was that all about? Adelaide Burgoyne and her dead sister Marcia: the dreadful image she conjured. Marcia, who had married a man called Beau. What happened there – why had she drowned? An accident, or something worse? Please God, not suicide… So many questions, and no answers. I found myself reading the same paragraph over and over.

  Eventually, I dropped into sleep, only to wake moments later, startled by a ghastly image in the mirror of dreams. My face: distorted, pale as death, but surely mine.

  Gasping, I switched on the reading light and tried to bring my thoughts under control. The room was as normal. Ellie’s gaze met mine from her portrait by the bed, her sweet smile undisturbed. Flinging back the covers, with shaking hands I reached for the carafe and poured myself some water.

  The chill cleared my head. No doubt Billy O’Loughlin, with his mind-theories, would say it was some memory from the past. And heaven knows, I’d seen enough to know what drowned men looked like. Too many. I shuddered, told myself they’d become one with my image in the mirror.

  The time of Adelaide Burgoyne’s fright must have been close to mine in the elevator. Had she really recognized her sister in the figure she described? And if so, were the two visions connected? That idea unnerved me afresh. I opened my book, taking refuge in the commonplace events of Arnold Bennett’s Clayhanger. In the Five Towns of Stoke-on-Trent, such things did not happen.

  ~~~

  I was still feeling chilled when I woke next morning. Needing warmth to restore me, I drew a hot bath. The water revealed a slight list which raised fresh anxieties about the bunker fire. Last night’s report from Joe Bell had said it was still burning.

  With sinking dread, I wondered what this morning’s report would say.

  I was dressed before Paintin came in wi
th my tea. Ordering breakfast in my quarters, I went through to the wheelhouse to check the early morning star sights.

  Phillips, the senior Marconi man, came into the chartroom with some wireless messages as he was going off watch. They were mainly greetings and congratulations from liners heading back to Europe. President Lincoln and Saint Laurent were added to yesterday’s Empress of Britain and La Touraine. Lined up like calling cards, they all mentioned ice off the eastern seaboard.

  But that, as I remarked to Mr Lightoller, was almost as much a courtesy as the greeting. At this time of year ice was to be expected in the region of the Grand Banks – and after the wild winter, there would be plenty of it.

  Generally, ice drifting down on the cold Labrador current melted rapidly on reaching the warm Gulf Stream. Avoiding that area when steaming westwards for New York was easy enough – the separation of shipping lanes meant we were following the southernmost route anyway. Returning on the more northerly track was a different matter. We would certainly encounter ice off Nova Scotia on the return leg of our voyage.

  ‘It’s unlikely to be a problem at the moment,’ I said, ‘but I’d better have a word with the juniors.’

  As Phillips left, Lightoller called them to attention.

  ‘There are various hazards, gentlemen. Drifting sea-ice is common, but not usually a problem. Closer to land, you’ll find pack-ice – and that can be awkward. It’s tempting to stop at night, when you can’t see an open avenue to follow, but the danger is it will close in and freeze around the hull – so we prefer to keep moving while we can.

  ‘With regard to big bergs, we do occasionally see them drifting south with the current. So if you should happen to spot one the size of a New York city block, be sure to let me know… They’re impressive,’ I added as the chuckles died down, ‘but quite rare.

  ‘We’re most likely to see smaller bergs – and if they’re a bright, blue-white, they’ll be visible, even at night. Similarly, the broken, bergy bits. The small stuff isn’t usually a danger to us, but call a senior officer if in doubt.