the latest parade of delicacies bestowed by the First-Class Dining Saloon, wandered about the room, setting the stage. He had been, in his professional life, only three things, and two of them were different branches of the same tree: reporter and fiction writer.
But his other job had been those two years in Virginia, running that repertory company—managing a theater, mounting productions, casting and even writing the plays himself. That was his common bond with his friend Henry B. Harris; and, with Henry’s help, he would again stage an effective show.
Helping him prepare the room for his production was May, emerald earrings glittering, resplendent in a high-waisted black lace dinner gown, the low neckline and white corsage emphasizing the swell of her bosom, a matching corsage in her hair. With tapering fingers tucked into the long white gloves that began where her short-tiered black lace sleeves ended, she was drawing closed the dark curtains on one of the many windows.
“Oh Jack,” she said, gliding to the next window, “I haven’t been this nervous since the opening night of The Man from Japan.”
“If it goes well, do you suppose Henry will want to purchase the cinema rights?”
With some effort, Futrelle pushed a large, heavy round oak table into the center of the room, to accommodate the ten people who would be seated here, in just a few minutes. Already, with the drapes closed, the room was darkening into a more appropriate setting for mystical doings.
“How can you joke?” she asked, approaching him. She was pale, and even trembling a little. “Aren’t you frightened?”
“There’s nothing to be frightened about.”
“How about, unmasking a murderer?”
“That may not happen. If, in fact, we have a cold-blooded, premeditating killer in our midst, there may be no reaction at all.”
“Oh, Jack, I’m suddenly cold. Hold me.”
And he did, tight, whispering in her ear, “There’s no danger, darling. After all, this is the safest ship on the ocean.”
She drew away enough to arch an eyebrow at him. “The two men in cold storage may have a different opinion.”
As usual, she had a point; but he felt confident that he knew which of his guests tonight would reveal guilt, and similarly sure that the individual in question would not react violently.
The most violent reaction he’d received had come, predictably, from the most indispensable guest: William T. Stead.
“Are you suggesting,” Stead had bellowed, the sky-blue eyes wide with indignation, “that I submit my good name, my untarnished reputation as a medium, to the conducting of a fraudulent séance?”
“I am,” Futrelle said, “but for a worthy cause.”
Futrelle had been admitted to the parlor of C89, Stead’s suite, the layout of which was identical to the Futrelles’ own, though the furnishings were Queen Anne, a delicate setting for the rumpled grizzly bear within. Stead had converted the sitting room to a study; the table and floor were littered with galley proofs, foolscap filled with longhand, and wadded-up balls of discarded paper.
Stead’s chin jutted, the white-thicket beard held high, extending like a pennant. “No cause is worth my reputation, sir. These are my religious beliefs you’re asking me to betray, no, verily to prostitute!”
Futrelle remained calm. “You may have noticed, Mr. Stead, the absence of Mr. Crafton in our presence in recent days.”
“A blessing.”
“No—a murder.”
And Stead’s wide eyes hardened, then narrowed, and softened, and soon the two men were seated on the sofa, as Futrelle revealed his intentions, and his plans.
“I am your servant, sir,” Stead said quietly, even humbly. He shook his big shaggy head. “But at least it does explain something that’s vexed me about this voyage.”
“What would that be?”
“The many warnings I’ve had.”
“I don’t follow you, sir.”
He shrugged. “Several friends… two extraordinary psychics, and a most respected clergyman… independently warned that danger awaited me on the sea, in April. None of them knew I intended travel, yet two specifically indicated I should avoid any trip to the Americas. These feelings of foreboding they shared indicated I would meet danger, even death, on the Titanic… and now I have.”
“Why, with your belief in such things, did you still book passage?”
“The president of your United States requested that I attend a peace conference; I could not refuse.” He laughed heartily. “Messages from the invisible world are not Marconi ’grams—they require interpretation, Mr. Futrelle, and I am not about to live my life by assuming the worst, and by capitulating to fear.”
With Stead’s participation, lining up the rest of the guests was, for the most part, child’s play. The man may have had the