The Atlantic Ocean: Friday, 22 July 1910
The sun broke early on Friday morning on board the Montrose, but Mr John Robinson slept late in his bunk. Edmund had woken around eight o’clock and had gone to breakfast, finding the dining hall filled with passengers for the first time since their voyage had begun. The majority of his fellow travellers had grown accustomed to the movement of the ship over the previous few days and appetites had returned in strength. All around him he could see the faces of first-class passengers, the colour back in their fat cheeks, filling their starving bellies with food as if a famine had just ended and supplies had been delivered for the first time in weeks. Not wishing to engage in conversation, he searched the room for a place where he might sit alone but he could not see a spare table. There were at least ten people queuing at the buffet, however, so he walked towards it, hoping that a seat might present itself by the time he had been served.
Catching sight of his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the food stands, it struck Edmund how easy it was to make the transformation from female to male, particularly when one was as small and slim as he was. People believed what was presented to them and rarely challenged it, which was how the deception had worked so convincingly thus far.
Their first conversation on the subject had taken place in Antwerp, on the afternoon that Hawley had bought the tickets which would gain them passage on the Montrose and, ultimately, bring them to their new lives together in Canada. He returned to their hotel room in the late afternoon, armed with several parcels, and laid them out on the bed with a look of anxiety on his face, barely able to look at his lover as he prepared his explanation. Ethel was accustomed to his mood swings by now; ever since his wife’s death she felt that he had grown increasingly tortured by the memory of her. The fact that their own relationship had begun before Cora went to California seemed to weigh on his mind to the point where Ethel believed he actually blamed himself for her leaving. In their adultery lay the failure of the marriage, as opposed to Cora’s unreasonable behaviour.
‘What’s all this?’ she asked, turning around from the dressing table where she had been trying on a pearl necklace belonging to Cora which she had never worn before. Perhaps it was the light, but she didn’t like the way it looked on her; the pearls were far too white, compared to the paleness of her own neck. Cora had enjoyed a darker complexion, which matched her moods. Ethel threw them aside with little ceremony. ‘Hawley, you haven’t been buying me presents again, surely? You’re spoiling me. And we should be saving our money.’
‘Not quite, my dear,’ he replied, reaching over and giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead. ‘Just a few things for the voyage, that’s all.’
‘But our bags are quite full already,’ she said, standing up and going over to examine his purchases happily. Although she had never had a relationship with a man before, she was sure that no one alive was as attentive and thoughtful as Doctor Hawley Harvey Crippen. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was how to make a girl feel valued. She poured out the contents of the bags on the bed and stared at them in surprise. ‘I don’t understand,’ she muttered, turning to stare at him, bewildered. ‘Is someone else joining us?’
Across the blanket lay a couple of pairs of boy’s breeches, along with some shirts, a pair of braces, some boots, a cap and a black wig. They all appeared to be in Ethel’s size but were clearly designed for a boy rather than for a girl.
‘I should explain,’ said Hawley, his face growing a little red with embarrassment.
‘I think you should.’
Hawley sat down on a chair and held Ethel’s hand as she sat on the corner of the bed opposite him. ‘I think we need to be very careful,’ he said, beginning the speech he had prepared earlier, not knowing whether she would believe him or not. ‘You see, I have a friend who travelled to America last year with his fiancée, and a scandal was created on board when it was discovered that they were sharing a cabin in an unmarried state. They were shunned for the entire voyage. Almost two weeks. I’m worried that it would be the same with us. I thought it would be better if no one knew our true feelings for each other.’
Ethel stared at him in amazement. ‘Hawley, you can’t be serious,’ she said.
‘I’m perfectly serious,’ he replied. ‘You see, what I thought was that, if you were to dress as a boy, then—’
‘A boy?’
‘Just hear me out, Ethel. If you were to dress as a boy, then no one would give any serious thought to the question of our sharing a cabin. No one would care.’
Ethel held her breath; she could scarcely believe what she was hearing. She turned around and looked at the clothes he had bought for her and she couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Hawley, you’re such a prude!’ she said. ‘This is 1910, for heaven’s sake. Not 1810. No one cares about such things today, surely.’
‘Of course they do. Don’t be so naïve.’
‘And if they do,’ she added with determination, ‘what of it? We’re in love, aren’t we?’
‘Of course we are.’
‘And we’re adults?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And we plan to be married when we reach Canada, don’t we?’
‘As soon as is humanly possible.’
‘Then I ask you, Hawley, what business is it of anyone else how we choose to arrange our lives in the mean time? If we want to spend the voyage hanging out of the crow’s nest, huddled up in a lifeboat, or howling at the moon, what does it matter to others as long as we have paid the fare?’
Hawley stood up and walked across to the window, pulling back the curtain a little with his fingers and looking down on the streets of Antwerp below. The market was closing for the day and he could make out a group of boys watching a grocery stall in earnest, waiting for the owner to turn his back so that they could each steal an apple. Their intent was obvious; he wondered why the stall owner failed to notice them. If it was mine, he thought to himself, I would keep a whip under the stall to dissuade thieves. ‘Ethel,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t believe it was completely necessary. I’ve been married twice before, you know that.’
‘Of course I do, but I don’t see what that—’
‘Both marriages failed. Oh, I know that Charlotte died and Cora left me for another man, but I was miserable with both ladies and that’s the truth of it. With you, things are different. I believe we have a chance of true happiness. For the first time in my life, real affection and love. And the moment we set foot on that boat tomorrow, we begin our new lives. Away from Europe. Just you and me. And I want every moment to be perfect. This trip across the ocean is our pre-honeymoon, don’t you see? If we have to put up with the comments of the other passengers or if we end up being snubbed by our peers, then what kind of voyage will it be? Eleven days of misery. And that’s no way to begin our lives together. And what if the scandal follows us to Canada and we find it hard to make new friends there? I ask you, do we deserve that? Please, Ethel. For me. Just consider it.’
She shook her head slowly, not as a refusal but out of amazement at his ideas, and turned once again to look at the clothes, picking up a pair of the breeches he had purchased and holding them against her legs to measure the size. She examined her reflection in the mirror; they seemed like a perfect fit. She took the wig off the bed and, piling her own hair up on her head, placed it on top, settling it gently at the sides. She looked in the glass again and wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or not. ‘It would take some adjusting,’ she said. ‘I might need to cut my own hair underneath it.’
‘But it will work. You agree to it?’
‘People will see through it,’ she said, exasperated.
‘People believe what they are told. No one expects a grown woman to dress as a teenage boy. Why would they? It will work, believe me.’
She sighed dramatically. ‘And who shall we say we are?’ she asked. ‘What pretence shall we give?’
‘I’ve thought about that too,’ he said. ‘It will be a game for us. I will say that my name is Mr John Robinson and you’re—’
‘Mr John—?’
‘You’re my son, Edmund.’
‘Your son,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Hawley, this isn’t some strange fantasy you’ve cooked up, is it? Because if it is, I can tell you now that—’
‘It’s a deception, that’s all, and it might even prove an entertaining one for us. Please, Ethel. I truly believe that this will be the sensible way for us to escape from here and begin again.’
She considered it. It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard and she failed to understand why he was so determined about it. Of course, his point was a valid one. If their fellow passengers in first class discovered an unmarried man and woman sharing a cabin, they would naturally cause a scandal; but, unlike Hawley, Ethel did not particularly care. She was not a woman overly concerned with the opinions of others.
‘And when we reach Canada,’ she said, ‘we can stop pretending? We can go back to being plain old Hawley and Ethel?’
‘I promise it.’
She turned and looked at herself in the mirror once again. ‘I make quite a good boy, really, don’t I?’ she asked.
Three days later, and she had not only grown accustomed to wearing her new outfit, but had begun to enjoy it. She felt a sense of great adventure and freedom pretending to be someone that she was not. Of course, problems had arisen along the way. Her basic prettiness, her wide eyes, her sharp cheekbones, her full lips, had made her into quite an attractive boy, and that had inspired the attentions of Victoria Drake who, she noticed happily, was not in the dining hall this morning. But everything about being Edmund Robinson, rather than Ethel LeNeve, offered a sense of danger and challenge which she had never felt before. She could walk differently, speak differently, act differently and think differently. She had boarded in Antwerp as a boy but, if nothing else, she believed that the trip across the Atlantic would make her a man.
Having helped himself to breakfast, the self-created Edmund Robinson stared around the hall, which still appeared to be filled to capacity. Running along the wall, however, was a row of tables set for two people and he saw an empty one at the very end, so he made his way towards it quickly, sitting down just as another passenger pulled out the opposite seat. He looked up to see the dark, scowling face of Tom DuMarqué as he planted himself at the other side of the table, his tray almost overloaded with food. He had the sense that Tom had been waiting for him.
‘Tom,’ he said, irritated to see him, for he had wanted to eat in peace this morning. ‘How nice.’
‘Edmund,’ the other replied with a curt nod. ‘You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?’
‘Not at all,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Please yourself.’
Tom sat down with a sudden heaviness and breathed in quickly, placing a hand under the table as if he was in pain.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Edmund, observing the scowl which had crossed his face.
‘Fine,’ he grunted.
‘It’s just that you look as if you’ve hurt yourself.’
‘I’m fine,’ he insisted, raising his hand back up and laying his breakfast out across the table: cereal, juice, toast, a plate of ham and eggs, two pastries and a cup of coffee—while Edmund stared at it with a smile. He himself usually preferred to eat nothing more adventurous than tea and toast in the morning, but today he had thrown caution to the wind and had taken a plate of scrambled eggs as well.
‘Hungry, are you?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
Although they had sat opposite each other at dinner the previous evening and had chatted amiably enough, Edmund could sense that there was little love lost between them. He had observed the longing glances that the boy had thrown in the direction of Victoria Drake and was more than aware that Tom could see the same looks being thrown from Victoria towards himself. It amused him a little but; although there was no possibility of the young girl succeeding in her flirtations, he suspected there was even less chance for Tom with the object of his own affections. Although he was a good-looking boy and his rude, worldly manner might have made him all the more attractive to some, he was little more than a child—and was not, he suspected, where Victoria’s realm of interest lay.
‘I was waiting for you, actually,’ said Tom after a few silent minutes had passed, confirming Edmund’s suspicion.
‘Waiting for me?’ he asked, looking up in surprise as his companion scoffed his breakfast. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. I wanted to talk to you.’
‘All right.’
‘About Victoria Drake.’
‘Ah,’ said Edmund, nodding his head.
‘I’m giving you fair warning, Robinson,’ the youngster said in a low voice.
‘Fair warning of what?’
‘Of what will happen if you don’t keep your filthy hands off her, that’s what. I’m giving it to you now and I won’t give it again.’
Edmund smiled and put his cup down. Forthrightness was one thing. Passion was another. But threats were something else entirely, and he was damned if he would put up with them, even if they were groundless.
‘Now just a moment—’ he began, before being cut off.
‘Just you listen to me, Robinson,’ Tom hissed. ‘I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t like it. I don’t like how you follow her around all the time and try and get in with her.’
‘How I—?’
‘I saw that girl first and, given half a chance, I’ll get her too. I’m twice the man you are, even if you do have a few years on me. So you’ll just stop chasing after her if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Me chasing after her?’ Edmund repeated with a laugh. ‘That’s rich. It’s her who won’t leave me alone, you idiot. She’s been after me ever since we met on the first day.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. A girl like that? She’d never chase after a scrawny thing like you. You’re far from being a man, if you ask me.’
Further than you realize, Edmund thought.
‘Skinny arms, weedy voice, you ain’t even had to shave yet, have you? And don’t call me an idiot or I’ll take you outside and throw you overboard. Let the sharks finish you off.’
‘Look, Tom,’ said Edmund, putting his knife and fork down, exasperated that he was obliged to continue this conversation at all. ‘It’s no use speaking to me about this. If you have any interest in Victoria, then I suggest you—’
‘I’m not interested in your suggestions,’ said the boy, picking up his butter knife now and leaning forward. The knife-point was only a few inches away from Edmund’s heart and he looked down at it nervously. ‘You don’t know anything about me,’ said Tom. ‘You don’t know what I’m capable of. Where I grew up, I had to fight to survive. Don’t think because my uncle struts around like the King of France, that makes me the Dauphin. I know how to get what I want and I’ll tell you this, you piece of shit, I’ll get that Victoria or crush you along the way, do you understand me? No one gets in the way of a DuMarqué. I come from a long line of fighters. My father died in the Boer War. My ancestors have killed for centuries. One was a highwayman. Another worked for Robespierre in the French Revolution, so I know a little about chopping the heads off the privileged. There has never been a coward among us.’
Edmund stared at him in horror. He may have been only fifteen years old, but there was a wildness behind those dark eyes that made him believe every word he was saying. The knife continued to point in his direction and it was held perfectly still; there was not a trace of nervousness in Tom’s demeanour. For two pennies, he thought, the maniac would stab him right there and then. Slowly Tom turned the knife around so that it was facing himself, and Edmund watched as the boy ran the blade along the inside of his palm, a thin line of blood appearing as he did so, while Tom did not twitch or betray any symptom of pain whatsoever.
‘I’ve lost my appetite,’ Edmund said, standing up and pushing his plate forward. He was upset and scared, an emotion he was not accustomed to. ‘I’m . . . I’ve got to . . .’
‘Just you remember what I said, Robinson,’ said Tom, turning the knife again and cutting it straight through the fried egg on his plate. The yolk exploded over the side, as if an artery had been cut, and he mashed the white into a piece of ham before eating it. ‘And like I said, I don’t offer warnings twice,’ he added. ‘You should think yourself lucky that I’m warning you at all.’
Pale, Edmund turned and walked quickly from the dining hall. His legs felt a little weak, his stomach sick. He wanted nothing more now than to return to his cabin. He wanted to cry. He hated violence and threats; they brought back too many bad memories. This business with Victoria Drake had struck him as something of a joke until now. The venom of Tom DuMarqué’s words however had turned it into something more serious. He stretched his hand out before even reaching the door of the hall, needing to push it forward quickly so as to get some air into his lungs. How can I pretend, he asked himself, when I am not a man at all and never can be?
He sucked in the fresh sea air on the outside like a drowning man coming up for air. Spots floated in front of his eyes and he hoped that he would manage to reach the cabin without collapsing. He had never felt such a mixture of anger and fear in all his life. On the deck he tripped over a length of rope and fell into a pair of familiar arms, giving a slight shout as he did so.
‘Edmund,’ said Mr John Robinson, staring at him. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Haw—’ he began, before realizing his mistake. ‘Father,’ he corrected himself quickly, staring from him to Martha Hayes and back again, trying desperately to recover his equilibrium. ‘I’m sorry, I’m feeling a little unwell. I thought I might get some more sleep.’
‘Perhaps you’re hungry?’
‘No!’ he snapped. ‘No, I’ve eaten already.’
‘All right. Well, as you wish,’ said Mr Robinson, his face looking perplexed and concerned. ‘Would you like me to come downstairs with you?’
‘No, I’m fine, I just need some peace, that’s all.’
‘Perhaps I could bring you some water, Edmund?’ Martha asked, seeing the boy’s features become even paler than usual and the line of perspiration bursting out along the hairline. ‘It wouldn’t be any trouble.’
‘Really, I’ll be fine,’ he repeated firmly. ‘I just need to rest, that’s all. I’ll see you both later.’
He rushed past them and they watched as he disappeared down the stairs. John Robinson frowned and wondered whether he should follow after all.
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Martha, reading his mind. ‘Let him sleep.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, sure that this was the sensible course. ‘Shall we go on for breakfast, then?’
‘Oh, let’s wait a few minutes,’ she said, linking her arm through his. ‘I love this time of morning, don’t you? Let’s just sit and enjoy it for a few minutes. It sounds pretty crowded in there anyway.’
Not very hungry yet anyway, Mr Robinson agreed and they relaxed on two deckchairs, watching as the seabirds swooped down into the water and flew back out of sight with whatever they had caught. Mr Robinson had still not reached the point where he was enjoying the voyage, but Martha Hayes was loving every moment of it.
‘I never imagined for a moment that I would end up crossing the Atlantic,’ she said, staring at the sea with such delight and excitement in her eyes that Mr Robinson could not help but smile. ‘It’s so far removed from my expectations in life. And I was so unhappy in Antwerp. This morning I woke up and felt just . . . excited about my new life. Sitting here, I feel happier than I have in a long time.’
‘I was born in America,’ said Mr Robinson, who would have preferred to have returned to the cabin. ‘I’ll be glad to be back there.’
‘Really? You have hardly a trace of an accent.’
‘Well, I’ve lived in London for years. I imagine I must have buried it there somewhere. I didn’t much enjoy the trip across in the first place, and I don’t much care for it now either.’
‘You’ll stay in Canada then? You’ll never come back?’
‘Canada. Or the United States. But yes, I’ll never return to Europe or England. I hate England. I hate the people. I found nothing but . . . misery there.’
Martha frowned; his tone was bitter and she found his manner slightly unsettling. ‘Do you know what today would have been?’ she asked, hoping to change the subject.
‘Would have been?’ he asked, surprised at the tense.
‘It would have been my wedding day,’ she said with a sigh.
Mr Robinson said nothing. He had been aware that there was more to Martha Hayes than she had let on so far, and he had not wanted to ask her any personal questions until she was ready to offer the answers herself.
‘I have told you about my friend, Mr Brillt?’ she asked. He nodded, recalling a few passing remarks. ‘Mr Brillt and I met some eighteen months ago. He was a teacher in Antwerp, a very intelligent man. His grasp of history and literature amazed me. The things he told me, the books he introduced me to! Oh, Mr Robinson, I believe that man had read every word that had ever been written. From the Roman historians to the medieval poets, the Renaissance dramatists to the new novelists. Even the European novels in their original languages. He could speak six different languages, you see. A brilliant man. And I don’t mind admitting that he opened my mind a lot to different possibilities. Oh, he wasn’t the most handsome man in the world, but there was something else about him. Something magical. Something so intelligent that it was hard not to be amazed by him.’
‘People like to pretend they’re in love,’ Mr Robinson suggested, ‘but there’s no such thing really. We all just use each other for our own ends. Don’t you agree?’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said. ‘What a cynical attitude! I loved Mr Brillt as if love had never existed before in the world. And he said he loved me too. We spent so much time together. We went to the theatre together, the music halls.’ He flinched at those hated words. ‘Sometimes he took me boating and we would eat a picnic in the middle of the lakes. He knew all the best shops and made the sandwiches himself with exotic cheeses and cold meats. Tastes I had never imagined. Wonderful afternoons,’ she added, drifting into a haze of memory. ‘He asked me to marry him, you see. Six months ago we went to dinner and he got down on one knee and produced a diamond ring and said that I, Martha Hayes, would make him the happiest man in the world if I would consent to becoming Mrs Léon Brillt.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘I did. I was thrilled. I couldn’t believe that a man as cultured and intelligent as he would have any interest in a woman like me. Of course, I had hoped that he might propose one day and had already begun to daydream about the life we would lead together when we were married, but when he asked me I was still shocked. We set the date—today’s date—and booked a church. I had already started planning our future together. And that’s when it happened.’
Mr Robinson stared at her. He could see that she was setting her jaw firmly in anticipation of the difficult part of the story. ‘Tell me,’ he urged her. ‘Or later, if you would prefer. If it’s painful.’
Before she could continue, Tom DuMarqué emerged from the dining hall and began walking towards them awkwardly. He stared at them as he approached, like a vicious animal sniffing its prey before deciding whether or not to attack. Eventually he passed them by, dragging his leg a little, offering them just a nod, and Martha shivered involuntarily.
‘There’s something about that boy,’ she began, but didn’t continue the thought. ‘And was he limping?’
‘He has a strange air about him,’ Mr Robinson agreed. ‘As if he’s very angry about something but isn’t sure what. He’s very different from his uncle. He doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. And yes, he did seem to be dragging his leg a little. But please, Miss Hayes—Martha—tell me what happened with your engagement. Nothing tragic occurred, I hope? My own first wife died in a traffic accident, so I know something of such things.’ The words were out before he could stop himself, but he immediately regretted having revealed anything so personal.
Fortunately, she did not react to them. ‘It was a Thursday afternoon, about two months ago,’ she said, looking away from him. ‘I had found the most beautiful wedding dress in a shop in Antwerp and was so excited that I thought I would go to Léon’s school and tell him about it. I bought some sandwiches, thinking we could have lunch together. When I arrived, I went to his usual classroom but there was a stranger there, a man I had never met before. To be honest, Léon had never introduced me to any of his friends or colleagues, so I wouldn’t have known the man anyway, nor would he have known me. Léon always said that he wanted to keep me all to himself. Anyway, this other teacher asked me who I was and I said that I was a friend of Mr Brillt’s. He took me aside and said that Léon had suffered an attack in the classroom earlier that day, something to do with his heart, they thought, and he had been immediately taken to hospital. Naturally I was racked with worry, and I ran from the room and went straight to the hospital. It was difficult to track him down at first, but eventually I found him in a private room and ran inside, prepared for the worst. Or what I imagined would be the worst. He was sitting up in bed, looking pale and anxious, but he was talking so I immediately knew that he was not at death’s door. But when he turned and saw me standing there, I thought for a moment that he might have another heart attack. “Martha,” he said, swallowing hard. I looked around the room and saw that he was surrounded by six children and a large, middle-aged woman, who were all staring back at me without the faintest idea who I was. Of course they were his wife and children. I knew it immediately. I could tell.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I did the only thing I could think of. I turned around and ran away. I only saw Léon once more after that, about two weeks later, when he visited me and tried to explain. He said that he and his wife led mostly separate lives and that there was no reason why we had to stop seeing each other. I was devastated, of course. I wanted to kill myself, Mr Robinson, I really did. And then one day I woke up and I thought that I would not allow this man to ruin my life any longer, that I had my own future to look forward to, and so I decided I would change my plans entirely. I went to the harbour and found out the details of transatlantic crossings and then I bought a ticket for Canada, for the Montrose, which is how you find me where I am now. But sometimes I think that had Léon not suffered the heart attack that morning, I could well have been marrying him today. He could have continued with his deception for ever. Some marriage. Based on lies.’
She sat back and looked at him with a trace of a smile but not an element of self-pity.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, knowing that his words would really be little comfort.
‘Don’t be. I’m better off without him.’
‘Nevertheless. It’s a terrible thing to do to someone.’
She turned around and looked him straight in the eye. ‘You know what I think?’ she said. ‘That this was a man with one wife already, who was trying to marry another, knowing that it would be a fraud which would eventually ruin them both anyway. If you ask me, Mr Robinson, some men are simply not supposed to take wives at all.’
He looked away and thought about it. ‘Are you hungry yet?’ he asked.
Matthieu Zéla was lying on his bed in the Presidential Suite, reading a copy of The Immoralist by André Gide. One of the pleasures of a long journey such as this one, he believed, was the opportunity it afforded one to spend long periods of time with little else to do but read. The real world was so busy, and life so filled with affairs of business and money and romance, that there was precious little opportunity to enjoy more cultural pursuits. To this end he had brought several books with him for the journey to Canada. He’d wanted to read the Gide ever since he’d heard that the pope had publicly condemned its author. Such criticisms usually made him more eager to sample the books than even the most positive commentary in The Times newspaper. He had never met the present pope, but he had once been employed by one of his predecessors to construct an opera house in the city of Rome, a project which had ultimately failed to come to fruition, and he had spent long hours in the Vatican poring over historical designs and discussing plans for its construction. He knew from his experience there that the personal tastes of the occupants of the Vatican often ran to the exotic. To this end, alongside The Immoralist, he had brought copies of Voltaire’s Philosophical Letters, Victor Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris and a volume of Casanova’s Memoirs to enjoy while he travelled to Canada, each of which had found a place on the Papal Index over the years.
The Presidential Suite was the largest single cabin on board the Montrose and in fact housed four separate rooms: the master bedroom, where he lay at the moment, a smaller one, in which his nephew Tom slept, a mediumsized bathroom and a sitting room for entertainment purposes. He had not planned on doing very much entertaining while travelling (his books were company enough for him, his nephew distraction enough) but he had had the misfortune of running into Mrs Antoinette Drake earlier in the day and she had enquired as to the comfort of his apartments, continuing her questioning ad nauseam until it became clear that she wanted to inspect them herself, at which point he had little choice but to observe etiquette and invite her for afternoon tea, an offer she had eagerly accepted. She was due at four o’clock; it was a quarter to the hour now, and Matthieu sighed, for he was enjoying the descriptions of Africa, which he had visited some twenty years before, and would have preferred to remain lost in them for another hour or two. Sadly, duty called and he placed the bookmark at the end of the chapter, preparing himself for the ordeal ahead.
Like Mr John Robinson, this was not Matthieu’s first trip across the Atlantic Ocean, nor would it be his last. Throughout his life he had travelled far and wide and he scarcely considered himself to be a citizen of any particular country, so varied was his life experience. Born in Paris, he had fled thence to England with his younger brother at the age of seventeen, when they had been orphaned. It was on a boat much smaller than this that he had met the only true love of his life, one Dominique Sauvet, and where his adult adventures had begun, although the romance faltered. He had been fortunate enough to make a great deal of money at a youthful age and had invested it wisely, moving from city to city whenever boredom struck, living in glamorous surroundings while never actually living beyond his means. He wasn’t sure how much he was worth exactly, but whenever he tried to make an account of his wealth it seemed to have grown once again.
He shaved quickly, barely glancing at the reflection in the mirror; he knew better than to expect any signs of ageing. His dark hair had a slight hint of grey running through it, but that had been there for so many years now without spreading at all that he hardly noticed it any more. Matthieu Zéla was an elegant man, the type of individual whose appearance suggests fifty years of good, healthy, athletic living. That this was quite contrary to the truth mattered little, for appearances, he had long grown to realize, were the most deceptive of all human traits.
The chiming of the clock in the sitting room indicated four o’clock, and by the fourth strike of the bell there was a sharp knock on the cabin door and he went to answer it. He imagined that Mrs Drake must have been standing in the corridor for several minutes, waiting for the hour exactly before appearing, and he could not help but smile to himself at her eagerness.
‘Mrs Drake,’ he said, standing back to allow her vast girth to come through the door unimpeded. ‘How lovely to see you.’
‘But Mr Zéla, how kind of you to invite me,’ she said obsequiously, her head darting from side to side in a quick appreciation of her surroundings, as if the whole visit had been his idea all along.
‘Matthieu, please,’ he muttered.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘And you must call me Antoinette. What charming rooms you have here. Poor Mr Drake was so apologetic when he informed my daughter and me that the Presidential Suite was already taken when he booked our tickets for us. He felt quite guilty. That’s why we’re only in the first-class cabin, you see. You got there before us, Mr Zéla, you naughty man. Matthieu, I mean.’
He smiled and closed the door behind her, aware that his decision to bring Tom to Canada had been a last-minute one and that he had only booked this suite twenty-four hours before leaving Antwerp. He doubted very much whether Mrs Drake’s unfortunate husband had ever enquired about it at all; if he had, it would have been merely to check the price before deciding against it.
‘Well, then I must apologize and try to make amends with tea,’ he said gallantly. ‘I hope your cabin is comfortable.’
‘Oh, perfectly adequate,’ she replied. ‘I don’t bother too much about these matters myself, of course. The important thing is that we arrive in Canada safely. I’m not a very material person, you see.’ Matthieu nodded and glanced quickly at her expensive dress, her luminous jewellery and the fine hat she was removing as she sat down. ‘But how lovely that you have your own facilities for making tea,’ she added, watching as he boiled some water in a pan. ‘What will they think of next, do you suppose?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘But I look forward to being there when they do. Would you prefer tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, I think. I feel coffee is an unsuitable drink, don’t you?’
‘For whom?’
‘Why, for anyone. I don’t know why, but it seems common to me. A little tea with lemon in the afternoon, and I’m a contented woman, Matthieu. If it’s good enough for Queen Alexandra, it’s good enough for me, and I know for a fact that she sits down to tea every day at four herself. I can’t imagine the royal family sitting down to coffee, can you?’
‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’d agree if you did. Anyway, it doesn’t take much to satisfy me, you know. A simple cup of tea and I’m as happy as a lamb.’ She flicked out her fan with these words and his eyebrows rose a little; he found that last statement somewhat hard to swallow. The tea made, however, he sat down opposite her in an armchair and allowed the pot to sit for a few minutes before pouring.
‘It’s so lovely to have made some acquaintances on board, don’t you agree, Matthieu?’ she asked.
‘Quite.’
‘My husband, Mr Drake, he travels a lot for his work and he can always strike up a conversation with another gentleman about business or politics or some such thing, I expect. But for a lady like myself, travelling with her daughter, one feels a little more cautious. One would not want one’s fellow passengers to get the wrong idea about one.’
‘And what idea would that be, Antoinette?’ he asked.
‘Well, I know you will think it a strange thing,’ she said with what she believed to be a girlish giggle. ‘But I have heard that there are many women who use these transatlantic crossings as a way to ensnare a husband. Two weeks at sea and off to a new life, new money, new man. I’ve seen it myself, Matthieu. That first day, boarding the ship, all those poor unfortunate single women running around, trying to discover the unmarried men and reel them in with their harpoons. Surely you’ve noticed them. It’s terribly embarrassing.’
‘I’m afraid I kept myself to myself that first day,’ he admitted. ‘Slept through the whole thing. But I’m sure you’re right.’ Of course, Matthieu had been married himself, on a number of occasions, and he was more than aware of the admiration some ladies in society had for the institution. Few of his marriages had ended well, however, and he had turned against it, although he still found himself falling into the same trap time and time again. Had it not been for the many references she had made to Mr Drake, he would have believed that Antoinette was trying to become the next Mrs Zéla herself. As it was, he felt she merely wished to be associated with the richest man on board. Marriage or money, these were the important things to women like her, he reasoned. And preferably both.
‘Take Miss Hayes, for instance,’ Mrs Drake continued, oblivious to her companion’s drifting away into his own dream-world. ‘A charming woman, no one could doubt it. Friendly, thoughtful and a lovely conversationalist. Such a shame that she is a little plain, but not every woman can be a great beauty. Only some of us are fortunate enough to have been born with good genes, and my family comes from a long line of great beauties. No, I will say this of Miss Hayes: she is a very pleasant woman. There can be no denying it. But her attempts to trap Mr Robinson are, shall we say, a little obvious, don’t you think?’
‘Mr Robinson?’ asked Matthieu. ‘The fellow we dined with last night, you mean?’
‘Of course. You must have noticed what was going on. She hangs on his every word.’
In truth he had noticed no such thing. A keen observer of human nature, he had examined each of his dinner companions in detail the previous evening and had already made up his mind on the characters of each. Miss Hayes, he believed, was no more interested in Mr Robinson than he was. She was simply a friendly woman, open to conversation and hoping to relieve the tedium of a voyage on one’s own by making a few friends along the way. And as for Mr Robinson himself? Well, Matthieu could scarcely believe that that milksop of a man would attract any serious female attention. He was quiet, moody, dull and entirely lacking in social graces. He wore a beard without a moustache, an outdated look. He had made it clear throughout dinner that he did not want to be there, barely acknowledging any of his companions and uttering monosyllabic answers whenever questioned. Even if Miss Hayes was interested in finding a husband, which he doubted, her tastes would hardly run to the likes of Mr John Robinson.
‘I think perhaps you do her a disservice,’ he suggested.
‘Do you, Matthieu?’ she asked, leaning forward, using every available opportunity to use his given name. ‘Do you really?’
‘Yes. I think she sees him merely as a friend.’
‘I think he’s tiring of her attentions,’ she replied, pursing her lips. ‘The poor man seems to run in fright every time he sees me. I think he expects Miss Hayes to be two feet behind me, where quite frankly she often does seem to be. I wonder, is she looking for a position as a paid companion? Do you think so? If so, she’s looking in the wrong place. I have my daughter for company and have never been short of friends.’
‘And how is your daughter keeping?’ Matthieu asked, keen to steer the conversation away from Miss Hayes. ‘I hope my nephew isn’t bothering her too much?’
‘Your nephew? Gracious, no,’ she said, shaking her head.
Mrs Drake herself was not immune to the attentions that Tom DuMarqué had been showing Victoria over the previous few days, and she was only disappointed that he was a mere child of fourteen. Had he been a few years older, then she would have seen him as a splendid match for her daughter, considering his lineage. And his potential bank account.
‘You have no children yourself then, Matthieu?’ she asked, looking around the room for any pictures which might contradict this hypothesis.
‘None, I’m afraid.’
‘But you have been married?’
‘Yes.’
‘But no children.’
‘Still none,’ he replied with a smile. Mrs Drake stared at him, expecting some additional information but nothing was forthcoming.
‘Such a shame,’ she said eventually. ‘Children can be such a blessing.’
‘Victoria is your only one?’
‘Oh yes. After all, one doesn’t need too many blessings in life. One shouldn’t be greedy.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Perhaps one day?’ she continued, unwilling to let the matter drop. Matthieu wondered whether she would simply prefer him to produce a copy of his will, in order to let her know to whom he intended leaving his money. If so, she would be disappointed. He had never made one. He’d never seen the point.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘The future is a little like the Mona Lisa. A mystery to all of us. You mentioned that you’re planning on spending time with a relative in Canada?’
‘Yes, my sister’s family. I haven’t seen them in so many years. I really can’t wait. And of course Victoria will have the chance to meet some of her cousins, which should be exciting. To be honest, Matthieu, I’m hoping that she may find a suitable beau in Canada. Some of the fellows she associates with in Europe can be such crude creatures. And they’re all down on their luck, more’s the pity. They come from aristocratic families, of course, with ties back to the Borgias, most of them, but ask them to buy a meal in a restaurant and they can’t even afford to look at the bill. Not so much as two shillings to rub together between them. That’s the strangest thing about the wealthiest families of Europe: they’re all penniless.’
‘Well, there’s always Edmund Robinson,’ Matthieu suggested, interested in what her response would be to his suitorship. ‘She seems very keen on him.’
‘Her keen on him?’ Mrs Drake said, appalled. ‘I think it’s the other way around, Matthieu. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off her. If you ask me, young Master Robinson and your nephew will come to blows before this voyage is over.’
‘I certainly hope not.’
‘But Victoria’s a beautiful girl.’
‘Indeed she is, I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. But Tom’s too young for her, and Edmund—’
‘Edmund what?’ she asked, ready to be insulted if he said something which demeaned her daughter, such as a suggestion that he was too good for her.
‘Edmund is unworthy of her,’ he said tactfully. ‘I think Victoria would be better with a more independent sort. With a little more maturity. Someone who has control over his own life. If you ask me, young Master Robinson is too old to be travelling so closely with his father. He should have struck out on his own by now. And he’s such a delicate thing, too. No, Antoinette, I believe that Victoria has better fish than him to catch in Canada.’
Mrs Drake sat back and drained her tea, delighted by his observations. She had reserved judgement on Edmund until now, having adopted a high opinion of his gentle father but still unsure as to their financial position or anything else concerning their family. She knew nothing whatsoever of Edmund’s mother, and that would be necessary before allowing any courtship to take place between the two young people. Relaxing in the Presidential Suite, she regretted that her husband had been so cruel as to deny it to her, insisting that she and Victoria settle for first class instead. It was a much more comfortable arrangement here and it said a lot about the cabin’s occupant. Mr Zéla was clearly a gentleman and he had risen in her personal ranking system to the point where he was now her favourite passenger on board, surpassing even Mr Robinson, despite the fact that he was a Frenchman—which was surely just an accident of birth for which he could hardly be held responsible. And, she convinced herself, she was sure that he had not invited her to tea in his rooms just as an act of friendship. He had probably fallen in love with her a little; but no good would come of it as she was a faithful wife and would never consider giving in to his animal passions. Still, it was always nice to have an admirer.
Matthieu Zéla, for his part, collected the tea things and brought them over to the sideboard, amused by the discussion of Victoria’s love life for, through his observations of the previous evening, several other things had become clear to him. First, that his nephew Tom had fallen hopelessly in love, and probably for the first time in his life. He recognized the desperate look in the boy’s eyes, the longing for the girl’s attention and company, for he had seen that look before, and usually in a mirror, many years earlier when he himself had loved Dominique. Secondly, that Victoria had no interest in his young nephew whatsoever, but that she in turn had fallen for the delicate charms of Edmund Robinson, who, he was absolutely sure, would never return those affections.
For Edmund Robinson, he had deduced within sixty seconds of meeting him, was clearly a woman in disguise.
At the other end of the ship, standing by the bow and looking into the distance at the open sea through his binoculars, stood Captain Henry Kendall, his mind filled with what he had observed the previous night. He was clear on one point: that Mr John Robinson and the boy he had presented as his son, Edmund, had shared a passionate kiss on the deck of the Montrose. And this was not a loving embrace between parent and child; no, indeed. This had been a true kiss of lovers, lips on lips, mouths open, bodies entwined. Absolutely outrageous. He had heard of such things happening, of course—in Paris usually—but this did not make them right. Naturally a husband and wife could share whatever foul intimacies their desires demanded of them; it was to be expected if children were desired of a union. No one could possibly enjoy the coarseness of the act, but that was the way of the world and he grudgingly accepted it. But a love between two men? Unconscionable. And between a man and boy? Disgusting. What would Mr Sorenson think of it, he wondered. Why, had he been present the previous evening, he would surely have voted to send them both overboard immediately and without the dinghy and compass that the traitor Fletcher Christian had given to William Bligh. For the first time Captain Kendall actually felt pleased that Mr Sorenson was not present on board this voyage, as such appalling behaviour would certainly have upset him. The captain thought of him, lying in his hospital bed in Antwerp, perhaps sporting the purple silk pyjamas which he had bought when they had visited the city of Quebec on their last voyage, and he gave a gentle sigh.
However, there was one other issue which negated his outrage and created a new sort for him to enjoy. While he had been watching the kiss take place, what he had thought was Edmund’s hat had blown off his head, revealing the hair beneath. But of course it had not been a hat at all but a wig. He could not swear to it, but every facet of his mind and every element of logic pointed to the conclusion that Edmund Robinson was in fact a woman. Of course the idea was infamous. That an unmarried man and woman would travel as husband and wife defied logic and decency. But which was worse: the embrace of a man and another man, a love affair between a father and son, or a hidden romance between the sexes in which the woman, for reasons unknown, disguised herself as a boy? He could not decide; all three disgusted him. He needed advice. Oh, Mr Sorenson, he thought. My dear Mr Sorenson! Where are you when I need your counsel most?
‘Captain?’ A voice from behind him startled him and he spun around, a delighted smile rushing across his face.
‘Mr Sorenson?’
‘Er, no, sir,’ came the confused reply. ‘It’s me, sir. First Officer Carter.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, disappointed, and turning back to watch the waves. ‘Of course. My mistake, Mr Carter. What can I do for you?’
‘Just bringing you today’s projections, sir. As requested. We’re making steady time, I’m pleased to report. Good healthy wind behind us, engines working fine, still operating on four of the six tanks. We could pump them up, you know, if you wanted. With this weather and the good wind, we could make Canada a day ahead of schedule if we gave it some heave-ho.’
Kendall shook his head. ‘To be a day ahead or a day behind schedule is one and the same thing to me, Mr Carter,’ he said. ‘A captain’s responsibility is to bring the ship into port exactly on schedule. We are not in a race. We are not trying to conquer the sea. We are simply trying to reach our destination safely and on time. We shall continue to run on four tanks for the time being.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Carter, frowning. He had hoped that the captain would give the go-ahead to increase speed, knowing that the sooner they arrived in Quebec, the sooner he could get on a ship back to Antwerp, and the sooner, therefore, he would be back with his wife. He was counting the days down and could think of little else other than the imminent birth of his child. Although there was still plenty of time before it was due, he was constantly worried that circumstances would get in the way and he would miss it, something for which he would never forgive himself. Or Captain Kendall.
The captain read through the figures which his first officer had handed him and approved them all silently. ‘Tell me, Mr Carter,’ he began.
‘Call me Billy, sir. All the other captains do.’
‘Tell me, Mr Carter,’ he repeated, refusing to utter the ridiculous name. ‘How do you think the voyage is going so far?’
‘So far? Very well, sir, I’d say. We’re making good time, we haven’t had any problems with—’
‘How about the passengers? Any thoughts on them?’
‘No, they seem like a lively bunch. We had a problem last night down below decks of course, but you probably heard about that?’ Kendall shook his head and Billy Carter explained. ‘Well, it came to nothing much in the end, thankfully,’ he said. ‘A girl down in steerage, about nineteen or twenty, sir, sitting out alone having a cigarette, and she says a chap came up behind her and dragged her into one of the lifeboats. Kept his hand over her mouth and tried to get fresh with her. She says he was ready to get serious about it but she managed to get her knee into the right position and do him a bit of an injury. Had his trousers around his ankles at the time and she said she heard an almighty crunch, so he got what he deserved, I suppose. Probably feeling the pain in his groin this morning. And he was winded, naturally, but somehow he found enough strength to pull himself out of there and run off before he could be recognized.’
Kendall frowned. This was the kind of animal behaviour he absolutely refused to tolerate on board. ‘Did she describe him?’ he asked. ‘Can we catch him?’
‘Unlikely. She said he wasn’t very big; she thought he was only a bit of a kid maybe, but quite strong with it, which is how he overcame her. Anyway, she’s all right now. She was a bit shocked last night, of course, but she’s a game girl and seemed delighted that she’d managed to fight him off. She’s turned herself into a bit of a heroine down there actually, as far as I can tell.’
The captain snorted. If these young girls insisted on sitting alone on deck late at night or, worse, smoking, well then, they were only asking for trouble. If the choice was his, he’d lock the pair of them up in the brig. ‘Post an extra sailor to patrol the decks at night,’ he said. ‘And let me know if the doctor receives any passengers with, shall we say, sensitive injuries. That kind of thing is unacceptable.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Any other thoughts?’ he asked in as casual a voice as he dared, not wanting to give away what he was really thinking.
‘I don’t think so, sir. Everyone else seems all right. No major troubles.’
‘I had a pleasant dinner last night,’ the captain lied, since he had hated every moment of it. ‘Your idea, the guest list, was it?’
‘Yes, sir. Just some of the first-class passengers. And Mr Zéla, of course.’
‘Oh yes. The Frenchman. In the Presidential Suite. Something of a dandy, I feel.’
‘A wealthy dandy, sir. My favourite sort.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘He’s a pleasant fellow, sir. Always has a word for the crew as he walks around.’
‘And Mr Robinson and his son,’ Captain Kendall interrupted him. ‘How do they strike you?’
Billy Carter pulled a face. ‘Pleasant as well, sir,’ he said. ‘A bit quiet, the father especially. But they’re all right. Haven’t been any trouble, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘I’m not getting at anything, Mr Carter,’ he replied, irritated. ‘I’m merely having a conversation with my first officer about the conduct of the passengers so that I can captain this ship as well as possible. I’m sorry if that bores you.’
‘No sir, not at all, sir. I just thought you meant—’
‘That will be all, Mr Carter,’ he said, dismissing the man with a wave of the hand as he gave the papers back to him. ‘I’ll see you later this evening, I’m sure. I am already trembling with anticipation.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Billy said, walking away unhappily. He traced back over his three-day history with Captain Kendall and could not, for the life of him, understand where their relationship had gone wrong. He had never met such an abrupt captain before, someone who seemed to have nothing but contempt for his officers. He was like something out of the navy archives. Only a few more weeks, he reasoned. Only a few more weeks and I’ll be back home with Billy Junior.
Twenty minutes later, Captain Kendall found himself standing outside Cabin A4, the one which was occupied by Mr John Robinson and his son Edmund, with his ear pressed to the door, listening intently to the sounds from within. A wild idea had occurred to him as he stood by the bow, an idea so shocking, so incredible, that he could scarcely bring himself to believe it. However, it had brought him here now and he cursed the designers of the boat for making the first-class cabins so airtight secure. The door was so thick he could hear only muffled sounds and snippets of conversation. He glanced up and down the empty corridor in case he was spotted, hoping that no one would appear before he could find some evidence.
‘It’s not a hotel,’ came one voice from within, the younger one, the higher-pitched one, the woman’s one. ‘They don’t do room service.’
‘Well, at these prices they should,’ was the reply. Some more conversation went by unheard and he scrunched his face up and pressed it even closer to the woodwork, determined to hear something incriminating.
‘She’s a pleasant enough sort,’ he heard. ‘Better than that Drake woman.’
‘I think she likes you.’
‘The mother after the father, the daughter after the son. It’s rather poetic, isn’t it?’
‘Only I’m not your son, am I?’
Kendall gasped. The truth at last. Pressing a hand to his mouth, he held his breath, praying for more.
‘And you nearly called me Hawley when you ran into Miss Hayes and me this morning. You have to be careful about that.’
‘I’m sorry, but I was feeling faint. That DuMarqué boy practically attacked me in the dining hall.’
‘It’s all right, she didn’t notice, but just take more care in future.’
‘What are you doing?’ A voice from down the hallway made Captain Kendall jump, and he spun around in fright. ‘Why are you listening at that door?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ He blushed from the top of his ears right down to his neck, and he was more than aware how ridiculous his red, swollen face would look, cast against his silver-white beard, the kind of beard he believed a sea-faring captain was supposed to wear.
‘What were you doing listening at that door?’
‘I wasn’t listening,’ he stammered. ‘I was . . . I was passing by and thought I heard some commotion from within. I was about to check that they were all right, but it seems to have stopped now.’
Victoria nodded, unconvinced. He gave her a brief smile and marched past, determined to return to his cabin as quickly as possible. He turned away and scampered off down the corridor. Running inside, he closed the door and locked it behind him, tossing his cap across the room on to the bed, then rummaged through a pile of papers on his desk.
‘Where is it, where is it?’ he muttered aloud, searching for what he had been reading the day they had left the port of Antwerp. He prayed that Jimmy, the young cabin boy, had not thrown it away and he was almost ready to give up when he saw its corner poking out from the very bottom of the pile. A newspaper from three days ago. He whipped it out, almost ripping it in the process, and ran his finger down the front page until he reached the article he wanted. If his face had been filled with blood after being discovered by Victoria Drake, it was drained of it now. ‘Good Lord,’ he said out loud. ‘Goodness gracious me.’ He dropped the paper on the floor and looked around the cabin nervously, relieved that he had locked the door behind him.
First Officer Billy Carter was sitting with two sailors in the navigation room, chatting away without a care in the world when he saw the captain striding purposefully along the deck towards them, and then climbing the steps. ‘Caps on, lads,’ he said, aware of Kendall’s rules, and he had just managed to put his own on his head when the older man marched through, indicating with the tip of his finger that he should follow him.
‘Everything all right, Captain?’ he asked perkily, sensing a determined mood in the man that he had not seen before.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘But it will be soon. Come with me.’
The two men went back down the steps and turned left, then down another flight and into the radio room, Carter practically having to run along to keep up with his captain. The room was empty and, when they were both inside, Captain Kendall locked the door behind them and ordered Carter to sit at the desk.
‘You’re familiar with the Marconi telegraph?’ he asked, and the first officer turned around to look at the wireless machinery and equipment laid out before him.
‘Certainly, sir,’ he said. ‘An amazing invention. Don’t know how we managed before we had it.’
‘I need you to send a message, ship to shore,’ he said, not interested in idle conversation. ‘I’d do it myself, but I need to think it out correctly. Can you send it?’
Billy Carter blinked. This was serious, he could tell. He took his cap off and placed it on the desk beside him. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said formally, with a quick nod of the head.
‘And when we leave this room, you discuss this message with no one. With no one,’ he repeated firmly. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Of course, sir. Strictest secrecy.’
‘All right then,’ said Kendall. ‘Start her up.’
Carter flexed his fingers and pulled the Morse code device towards him, racking his brain to remember the signals of dots and dashes which he had learned many years before but which he had had to use on only a handful of occasions since. He thought them through and relaxed as they came back to him.
‘The message is to be addressed to Scotland Yard,’ said Kendall.
‘Scotland Yard?’ Carter asked, spinning around, but the captain pushed him back to his former position.
‘Just send it,’ he said firmly. ‘No questions.’
Carter tapped away. ‘To Scotland Yard. From Henry Kendall, Captain of the SS Montrose, of the Canadian Pacific Fleet.’ He cleared his throat and waited for Carter to finish sending that before continuing. ‘Have strong suspicions that Crippen, London cellar murderer, and accomplice are among saloon passengers. Moustache taken off, growing beard. Accomplice dressed as boy. Voice, manner and build undoubtedly a girl. Please advise.’
Billy Carter sent the message to the wireless receiver which Guglielmo Marconi himself had built at Poldhu in Cornwall before turning around and staring at his captain with a mixture of amazement and sudden respect.
Kendall looked at him and smiled coldly. ‘Now we wait for a response,’ he said, anticipating the younger man’s question.