St. Theresa’s Hospital in Turbin Street was a nondescript brown brick building sandwiched between two others exactly like it. The front door was one step below the pavement, and I ducked to be sure I didn’t hit my head on the lintel. In a small front room was a desk, where a young woman sat and squinted up at me. “What be ye wantin’, then? We don’t want trouble. I’ll call the police.”
“I am the police,” I said. “Inspector Corravan.”
“A Yard man,” she said uncertainly.
I didn’t bother to correct her. “I’m here to see Mr. Conway. He was injured in the Princess Alice disaster, and I have some questions.”
“Oh.” Her blue eyes became round. “I’ll ask the doctor if he can be seen.” She vanished, and I studied the two items hanging on the wall. One was a certificate, no more than eight inches by ten, certifying that Dr. Mary Elizabeth Bradford had graduated from the University of Edinburgh. Another framed rectangle named Dr. Michael Bradford as a member of the Royal College of Surgeons. My guess was that he was her father, and this was one of the few hospitals in London where she might find a position. Belinda knew two women physicians, both of whom were only allowed to work as midwives.
“Mr. Corravan? I am the doctor.”
I turned and adjusted my gaze downward, to a woman who barely came up to my chest. Her light brown hair was naturally curly, but she had subdued it into a severe style and secured it in a knot at the nape of her neck. She wore a white apron over a striped blouse with sensible sleeves that wouldn’t get in the way. She didn’t look robust enough for this sort of work. But her brown eyes were clear and inquisitive, her demeanor calm. I imagined she had a great deal of practice keeping it so.
“Dr. Bradford,” I said, bowing my head in greeting.
“I understand you wish to see Mr. Conway.”
“I won’t stay long.” She hesitated in a way that caused me to add hurriedly, “Is he still alive?”
“Fortunately, yes,” she said, her expression troubled. “He has a head injury, and he’s suffered some damage to his larynx and bleeding from his spleen, but we operated, and I believe we’ve stanched that.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But he mustn’t be upset again. One of the other patients foolishly showed him a newspaper last night. It was all I could do to keep him in bed.”
“Newspapers don’t have the facts. And I won’t bring up the rumors.”
Relief flooded her features. “Very well, then.” She led me through one long narrow ward, with beds jutting toward the center at intervals, then up a staircase. At the top, she paused with her hand on the doorknob, her expression troubled again. “Mr. Corravan, aside from another inspector yesterday, no one has come looking for him. Do you know if he has family in London? When I asked if I could send for someone, he merely shook his head.”
“I couldn’t say,” I said. “If he mentions anyone, I’ll let you know.”
She nodded, opened the door, and pointed toward a curtain at the far end. “He’s our only male patient, and this was the best we could do for privacy.” We approached, and she shifted the curtain so I could step inside the improvised room. The man’s orange hair was thick and curly except where it had been shaved for a bandage placed near his temple. His body, under a gray blanket, appeared to be of medium height and slight. His gaze caught mine, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He lay flat on his back, but he was conscious.
“Mr. Conway,” I said.
“Aye.” His voice was a croak.
“I’m Inspector Corravan of the River Police, investigating the Princess Alice disaster. Are you all right?”
“I don’t know yet,” he replied. “The doctor said I was bleeding on my insides, but she’s still coming ’round, so I suppose Old Harry isn’t snatching me yet.” His eyes sparked with indignation. “But I’ll have you know I didn’t steer the Bywell into the steamer, none of us was drunk, and the person you should be looking for is the man who tried to kill me.” He touched his throat gingerly.
This wasn’t what I’d expected, but at least I didn’t have to wonder whether he was willing to talk.
I drew up a chair. “Mr. Conway, I don’t conduct my investigations based on what I read in the newspapers.”
“Well, you bloody shouldn’t,” he said, but he appeared somewhat mollified. “Beggin’ your pardon, but it is damned hard to read lies about yourself when there’s no way of setting ’em straight.”
God knows, I understood his frustration.
“Of course,” I said. “Could you tell me what happened that night? I came from Wapping and didn’t arrive until well after the boat sank.”
“How could you? It all happened in minutes.” His face settled into unhappy lines. “It was terrible. Those poor people.” He gulped, fighting down a cough.
“You were at the wheel of the Bywell Castle.”
“I was.”
“A last-minute substitution,” I said.
“Their man didn’t arrive. I happened to be at the dockmaster’s. At the time, I thought it was lucky for them I was there.” His voice dropped. “Unluckiest half hour of my life.”
“The captain mentioned there was something wrong with your pay,” I said.
“Aye. Usually I’m paid on Monday. But they said the records had gone missing, and my wages weren’t ready. So I came on Tuesday and waited for the paymaster.”
I felt a prickle of suspicion at yet another peculiar event that resulted in John Conway being on the Bywell Castle. “Had that ever happened before?”
“No, never.” He looked puzzled. “Does it matter?”
Instead of replying, I asked, “What do you remember of the minutes before the crash and immediately after? Who was near you?”
His right hand came up, unsteadily, and tugged the bedclothes further up on his chest. “I was at the wheel, the captain p’rhaps five steps away. Lookout was up front at the prow.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Couldn’t say for certain. I think someone called him Dick.”
“Was he the man who tried to kill you?” I asked.
“No, no.” His fingers fidgeted with the blanket. “He came later.”
“All right. Where was the ship at this point?”
“Fairly close to the south shore, but not too close, mind you.” He lifted his hand and dropped it back on his chest. “If you know the river, there are shallow spots that change with the tides. The recent rain has brought more sediment into the river just west of Tripcock Point, so we were a hundred yards off the tip.” He paused. “I used to work for the Mantel Ironworks, and I’ve been on the river for twenty-one years. I’ve seen what the smaller boats do at places like Tripcock, where they hug the shore.”
“Where else do they punch the tide?” I asked. His reply would tell me how well he knew the river.
“Ach, half a dozen places downstream,” he said. “Bessell’s Pier and Shropley Point are two of ’em. Then there’s Nine Elms Pier and Saw Mills Timber Yards, upstream.”
I nodded in agreement and gestured for him to continue.
“With that in mind, I called to the lookout to keep a sharp eye out for boats.”
“How dark was it?”
“Well, the moon was nip and tuck with the clouds, but we could see the running lights of a tugboat and barge nearby, and all the colliers docked near the gasworks. And as we came close to the point, the lookout shouted that there was a ship ahead, and to steer to port—no, to starboard—no, to port! The captain was at his side in a minute, and he shouted, ‘Port, man! She ported her helm!’ So I turned. But it was too late.”
“So the Princess Alice changed direction,” I said slowly.
“Aye,” he replied. “She turned almost broadside to us.”
“And what happened after the collision?”
“The captain ordered every hand to launch our lifeboats and lifebuoys—anything we could find—into the water, in the hopes passengers from the Princess could stay afloat until we could rescue them. The captain had the whistle going full blast to alert boats passing by, and plenty came to help.”
“The captain says he reversed the engines,” I said.
“Oh aye, to stop. But not for long. A crewman from the Princess climbed up one of the hawsers and shouted at the captain to stop the engines altogether or he’d kill people in the turbines.”
“They quarreled?”
He waved that suggestion away. “No. They were just shouting to make themselves heard over the noise. Then he gave the order to stop the engines and ran aft to help.”
“Hmph,” I said. This didn’t quite jibe with what Captain Harrison had said about going aft immediately, but it wasn’t far off. I took out my pocketbook to make a note and to suggest a change in the direction of my questions. “Am I right in suspecting you’re Irish?”
He gave a crooked grin. “Aye. And you?”
I nodded. “Is your family in Ireland or here?”
The humor faded from his expression, leaving it bleak. “Haven’t much family to speak of.”
“Anyone in London?”
His eyes lowered. “I live alone.”
“Were you married?”
A brief nod, and over his face came a look of such sadness I knew I’d been right to think he wouldn’t have left his keepsakes behind.
“Do you have any affiliation with the IRB?” I asked.
His gaze met mine. “I don’t hold with their ideas. Not anymore.”
That twinged at my nerves. “Did you once?”
He gave a sigh. “I won’t pretend I don’t know what you’re after. I’ll admit I have friends in the IRB. I even went to some meetings.” After a moment, he muttered, “And I signed their ledger, like that paper said.”
I hid my dismay. “How many meetings?”
“Two or three. But then I stopped.”
“Why?”
His hands moved restlessly again on the bedclothes. “We should have home rule. We need to be able to look after our own. But it’s not worth taking the lives of innocents. ’Sides which, bombs just get the English’s backs up, causes ’em to dig in harder. To my mind, it comes from years of fighting the French and winning in the end.” He peered over at me. “Were you born here or there?”
“There, though I don’t remember it. My parents came over in ’47 from County Armagh.”
He nodded. “We landed in Liverpool in ’48. Ma and Da and the four of us. We’d already buried two. That’s what finally convinced Ma that we had to leave, and she made Pa see it too.” A faint smile curved his mouth. “Lord, she wasn’t half his size, but the night we lost Molly, Ma put her hand on his chest, her arm stiff as a broomstick, and told him she was leaving, and he could come or stay as he would. When Ma talked like that, he listened. We all did.” I don’t know what he saw in my face, but it caused his expression to soften. “You’re caught in this, ain’t you?”
“The papers are reporting that there was dynamite and the IRB flag at the railway disaster,” I said. “And you were at the helm of the Bywell Castle. There’s plenty who would love to find links between the two accidents.”
He blinked in surprise. “Was there any dynamite or flag found on the Princess?”
“Not yet. They’re still raising parts of the ship,” I replied.
“Hmph,” he grunted.
“Now, what can you tell me about the man who attacked you?”
His eyes met mine. “Well, I stayed at the wheel, like I was ordered. The captain and lookout started aft, so I was left alone, and somebody came up behind me, threw a line around my neck, dragging me backward.” He moved the gown away from his neck, so I could see the raw, red marks from the abrasion. “I wasn’t ready for it, so it took a minute to right myself, but I know how to keep my head, and I jabbed a foot backward, caught him in the knee, and he loosened his grip. I fought him with everything I had, him whaling on my stomach the entire time with his fist. I had my knife in my pocket, so I managed to turn and swing it at him. I think it cut his arm, but he hit me hard enough to make my ears ring. I slashed at him again with my knife and I don’t know where it struck, but he let out a scream and threw me down on the deck. I don’t remember naught else.”
“Can you tell me anything more about what he looked like?”
“Light-colored hair, curly, wore a cap.”
The similarity with the man who’d attacked Eyres made me ask, “How light?”
“Pale yellow. Almost white,” he said. “He was twenty or twenty-five years old. Shorter than you, but sturdy.”
A chill ran along my spine. Could it be a coincidence, a man with such fair hair attacking both men? Was it the same man? But how could he get from one ship to the other so quickly? He would have had to attack Eyres and then dash for the lines to climb up on the Bywell Castle. The timing seemed nearly impossible.
“Don’t look at me like that! I might’ve lost my memory, but I’m not crazy,” Conway said, his voice indignant and rising to a shout. “I know what I saw!”
Before I could explain that I believed him, the curtain swung aside and a nurse appeared, her expression disapproving. “I’m sorry, we can’t have our patients upset, and they can hear you.”
“Of course.” I laid my hand on Mr. Conway’s shoulder. “I do believe you. And don’t worry. It’ll all get straightened out.”
He reached up his other hand to grasp my forearm. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he insisted, his eyes earnest. “The Princess Alice should never ’a been there, much less changing direction the way she did. Certainly not at that time o’ night.”
I nodded. “I agree with you, there, Mr. Conway.”
His fingers eased.
“Mr. Corravan.” The nurse clutched my elbow. “I must ask you to leave. It’s time for the patients to receive their medicines and rest.”
“I hope you mend quickly,” I said to Mr. Conway. “Thank you.”
The nurse steered me to the top of the stairs and bid me goodbye.
I left, mulling over all Conway had said. I wished he had never been to an IRB meeting; it would have made clearing him of suspicion so much easier. But he had, and there was nothing to be done about it. Still, it didn’t alter my feeling that the man was innocent of conspiracy. No doubt some would accuse me of believing Conway’s account simply because he was Irish, but I had the uneasy sense that he’d been made a pawn.