The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,60

innocent, said she gived up the child weeks afore to a orphanage run by a ‘Mrs. Gray,’ I think the papers said… you’d have to check that… but there was no orphanage and there was no ‘Mrs. Gray.’ They convicted her, and only then she copped, ’cause it come out that her boyfriend, who’d put her in the family way, had run off and left her and the little one to fend for themselves.”

The lad sighed, slowly shaking his head at the horror of it.

Sitting forward, chilled, Futrelle said, “And this woman, this mother who murdered her infant son… is Alice Cleaver? The nanny entrusted with the Allisons’ children?”

He nodded. “It was in the papers day upon day. ’Twas a story you followed. They put her picture in, and it’s not a face a man would likely forget, is it, sir?”

“No it’s not. Why in God’s name isn’t she in prison?”

“The jury asked for leniency, the judge took pity on her. She was a wronged woman, His Honor said, and hers was a desperate act. Her livin’ with the memory of what she done was punishment enough, he said. She was set free.”

Futrelle was flabbergasted; he stabbed out his cigarette in a glass White Star ashtray. “How could she have ended up the Allisons’ nanny with that in her past?”

The lad threw his hands in the air, his eyes wide with the conundrum. “I don’t know, sir. If you lived in England, you’d likely know about the case.”

“That may explain it—the Allisons were just visiting London; they’re Canadian.”

“Sir, has anyone else said anything of this sad business to you? Your British passengers?”

“It’s mostly Americans, in First Class, son… and the few British among us are not likely to read the same papers as you. And even so, the only stories they’d be inclined to ‘follow’ would focus on themselves.”

Davies hung his head. “P’rhaps ’twas wrong to point this out, a’tall. P’rhaps the poor pitiful woman only wants what we all want, down here in the hindquarters of this great ship: a new life, another chance.”

Futrelle nodded gravely. “The promised land.”

Then Davies looked up and his dark eyes were burning in his baby face. “But the little babby she’s carryin’ in her arms, it deserves a first chance, don’t it? And with a crazy woman, a child killer, lookin’ after the wee one… well, it just don’t seem right, sir.”

“No it doesn’t… You’re a good man, Fred.”

“Sir, I hope to have children of my own, someday, and soon.” The crooked smile turned shy; it was strangely ingratiating. “Monday last, day afore we left, I was married at Oldbury parish church—April eighth—to the prettiest girl in West Bromwich.”

“Well, congratulations. Is your bride aboard this ship, son?”

“No, she’s moved in with her mum till I can send for her.” He laughed. “Y’know, we almost missed the boat! Got the wrong train out of West Bromwich, barely made it aboard, me brothers and uncle and me. But I’ve always been a lucky sod… sir.”

Futrelle stood. “I hope you do find the promised land, son.”

Davies stood, too. “Thank you, sir. I hope I done the right thing, tellin’. Couldn’t stand the thought of her hurtin’ another babby.”

Futrelle nodded; they shook hands again, and the mystery writer joined Andrews in the General Room, where someone was playing the piano—some lively English music-hall number—while many of the emigrants clapped along.

“Success?” Andrews said.

“Of a sort,” Futrelle said.

The clapping around him was almost like applause.

Almost.

TEN

SHIPBOARD SÉANCE

EVEN FOR THE TITANIC, THE Reading and Writing Room spoke of uncommon elegance. Situated on A deck, just forward of the ornate First-Class Lounge (of which it was a virtual extension), the high-ceilinged Georgian-styled chamber, with its plush armchairs and sofas upholstered in pink-and-red floral design, its wall-to-wall deep red carpet, its sheltering potted palms, made an ideal retreat for the ladies.

During the day, however, the white walls combined with the many-paned high windows, including a bay window onto the sea, so blindingly suffused the room with light, its designated purpose—reading and writing—was made moot. Thus the chamber was little used, and after dark, when the First-Class passengers were dining or attending the nightly concert, the room lay as abandoned as a mining-camp ghost town.

So it was with little difficulty that Futrelle—with Captain Smith’s sanction—secured the room for a private affair, a unique event, for a very select and honored list of guests: a séance.

Just before nine P.M., Futrelle, still dressed in his formal clothes from dinner, his stomach rather nervously trying to digest