The Deep

by Alma Katsu

  He couldn’t wait for the voyage to be over. It wasn’t the ship’s fault—it was a beautiful machine, so well-built, real pride of craftsmanship—but its misfortune was to be filled with such disagreeable people. And his misfortune to have no means of escape from them. He’d headed to the Café Parisien for breakfast and there they were all were: grouped around the wicker table, the Astors and the Duff-Gordons. The insufferable lecher Guggenheim, smelling of an assignation with that French woman he had brought with him and kept in a separate cabin, as though no one was wise to his little game. And beside him, newly seated, was Caroline Fletcher.

  As Stead approached the table, Astor signaled for a steward, who came instantaneously. They must have an eye peeled for Astor wherever he was on the ship, so he wouldn’t have to suffer even a second’s want. “We’ll need another chair,” he said, gesturing to Stead. The steward hurried over with a chair, as though Stead were an invalid grandfather. He took it gruffly.

  Astor cast an eye at Stead, deciding whether to address him. “We were discussing the event tonight. Do you plan to attend?”

  “Event?” It was the first Stead had heard of it, but then he tried to avoid the petty amusements. He had work to do: an editorial he had promised to the Pall Mall. A speech he intended to give to the Theosophical Society in New York a few weeks after his arrival.

  “The captain’s ball,” Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon said.

  “They should call it the Joseph Bruce Ismay ball and be done with it. I’m sure he’s the one behind it. He wants to do something splashy for the maiden voyage,” Lady Duff-Gordon said.

  “Free advertising for you, is it not? I can only imagine you’ll set the standard of attire. Ladies will be in line for your next collection,” Guggenheim said.

  “Ever the capitalist!” Lucy laughed. “I shall do my best to dazzle.”

  Stead resisted the urge to scoff. Overpriced rags for women with too much money and not enough modesty were just one of society’s many failings. Capitalism indeed. Avarice and frivolity, more like it.

  Lady Duff-Gordon turned to Caroline, who had just started nibbling on a piece of leftover toast in the rack on the table. The plate in the center was scraped bare, though by the looks of it they’d dined on caviar and scrambled eggs. Streaks of cream obscured the blue decorations on the china. “We have another clotheshorse among us. Have you planned your outfit for tonight?”

  Caroline lowered the toast and smiled wanly. “I’m sure I’ll think of something. My full wardrobe is in the hold, so my options are a bit limited. And I can’t seem to find my favorite bracelet—I searched for it all morning.”

  Astor went suddenly alert. “Mrs. Fletcher, are you sure it wasn’t stolen?”

  “Stolen?”

  “There’s been a rash of burglaries in first class, Caroline,” said his wife, Madeleine. “Had you not heard?”

  “Well now,” Stead inserted. “A rash of them? That sounds a bit extreme. Let us not jump to—”

  “It happened to me, too!” proclaimed Lucy. “I didn’t know it had been a pattern! But I’m convinced someone has stolen my ring, the opal and diamond. It is one of a kind. Irreplaceable. I wore it when we boarded!”

  Of course, Stead recalled it: the way the woman had been flashing it around, there wasn’t a soul on the ship who hadn’t seen it. She might as well have asked to be robbed.

  “I thought it was just me.” Caroline looked around the table. “I’m missing a few things, too. Nothing as valuable as your ring but of sentimental value all the same.”

  “You don’t suspect the staff, surely,” Guggenheim said. “It would be foolhardy, with them trapped on the ship and no way to hide the evidence.”

  “Criminals aren’t usually the type to think ahead, are they?” Astor said. He twirled champagne in a glass, releasing its aroma. Stead watched the golden swirl of it in the morning light. He’d never understood it, how men could put so much poison into their mouths, even at this hour. And do it with delight.

  Stead made a stern face, the one he reserved for when he was speaking at public events as the Famous Newspaper Editor, the living legend. “Many strange things have happened on this ship in the few short days we have been at sea. That there may be another party responsible, one that none of you have considered—”

  Caroline put down her cup. “Are you saying, Stead, that I don’t know what’s going on in my own cabin? My jewelry is missing. That’s a fact.”

  He felt uneasy. He didn’t like sparring with young women. He remembered the picket lines outside his trial. Protestors outside his newspaper office.

  She raised one eyebrow. “You don’t think much of the female sex, do you, Mr. Stead?”

  Stead cleared his throat. “That’s not true. My record speaks for itself, I believe. Why, I am a champion of women’s emancipation. You’re an American, you wouldn’t know, but there’s a British law that bears my name—”

  “The Stead Act. We know all about it, and the Eliza Armstrong case,” said Lucy Duff-Gordon.

  There was something about the way she said Eliza’s name that worried him.

  “You went to jail over that case, didn’t you?” Astor said with a slight laugh.

  It felt like a noose had tightened around Stead’s throat, though he should have been used to his past being thrown in his face by now.

  “You’re going to argue for your innocence, but I doubt they send famous men to jail in England, not if they are innocent,” Caroline said with a harshness that surprised him. “From what I read, it wasn’t until another newspaper found out the truth that you owned up to it.”

  She was at least familiar with the details of the trial, he had to give her that. “What is it you want from me, Mrs. Fletcher? I wish I could take back that night—in hindsight, I realize I made a terrible mistake with some aspects of it. But I paid for those mistakes with three months at Coldbath. Which is more than the libertines who routinely exploit young women like Eliza Armstrong can say.”

  He sweated for a moment under her appraising eye. But if she was going to bring up another point, it was lost when her husband came up to the table. It didn’t take a detective to figure out within seconds that things were strained between them that morning.

  “I suddenly find I am not hungry,” Caroline said, rising. Stead had seen this scene play out many times before, but the husband only watched, openmouthed, as she walked away.

  “Oh, dear.” Stead felt rather sorry she’d left. Mark said nothing, only sat down forlornly in her seat.

  The Astors and the Duff-Gordons made polite escapes as the waiters came round to clear the used plates.

  Now, it was only Stead and Mark. “I suppose you ought to go after her and apologize.”

  “In a minute, perhaps. She needs to cool off.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying, you seem particularly sad this morning.”

  “Do I?” Mark’s smile was wistful.

  Stead finished his coffee. “I hear your wife has been . . . having difficulties? Her things trifled with by an unseen hand? Have you considered the possibility of spiritual intervention?”

  Mark paled. “What do you mean? Are you talking about . . .”

  “Ghosts,” Stead said plainly. “Someone from your past. Someone who has recently died. Can you think of anyone like that, someone you’ve been thinking of?”

  Mark furrowed his brow. “I can see Caroline has told you about Lillian.”

  Now this was a turn. “Lillian,” Stead repeated. “Your . . .” Former wife? First love?

  “Yes, Lillian. My . . . we were very close.”

  Stead leaned in. “What happened?”

  Mark stiffened. “A terrible accident, is all.”

  “I see,” Stead said softly. “Mr. Fletcher. The living are often anchors for the dead. Sometimes, when our feelings for the dead are very, very strong, it keep
s them tied to us. It prevents them from moving on to the next world. Your love for this dead woman, whoever she is, might be keeping her spirit trapped here with you on earth. On this ship, even. Have you considered it?”

  As Stead watched Mark absorb his words, he thought again of Eliza Armstrong. The spare young figure in the bed and his own distraction haunting him still.

  But Mark snapped the napkin with a flourish before laying it over his lap. “No, I haven’t considered it because I don’t believe in this nonsense, and I’ll thank you not to speak of this again,” Mark said, as the waiter approached again.

  Stead bit his tongue. He wouldn’t give voice to the thought that ran through his head at that moment, that Caroline Fletcher’s anger with her husband seemed justified. He simply stood, shoving his napkin aside. “You might take a long, hard look in the mirror. There’s obviously something preying on your conscience and you must address it before it consumes your life—and your marriage.”

  And then he left without a backward glance, passing through the corridors that seemed alive with fluster and activity. Obliviousness, everywhere around him, he thought. They were in danger, that was obvious to anyone who would take the time to see, but all these silly, frivolous people could talk about was this captain’s ball. He could hear the peal of bells as passengers rang for service throughout the ship: the jangle of vanity, high and tinkling, like a million chimes caught in a fierce wind.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  13 April 1912 5:45 p.m.

  Entered into the record of Dr. Alice Leader

  Strict confidentiality

  Patient: Annie Hebbley

  Age: 18

  I was relaxing in my cabin when I was approached by a stewardess named Annie Hebbley. She looked exhausted, having been on her feet all day with the servants’ bells ringing nonstop as the ladies of first class readied themselves for the captain’s ball. I can’t say I have any interest in it myself, so I was passing the time reading when she stumbled in, flustered and wild-eyed.

  There is something strange about this one. She reminds me of the lower-class maids and factory girls I treated at the Willard Asylum. It seems a baby in her care had exhibited long red welts like scratches, frightening the stewardess. Perhaps she had scratched herself. Infants are known to do that, I told her. Then she got to the heart of the matter: there were rumors that this same phenomenon had happened to the dead servant boy. She was afraid something uncanny was happening on the ship. Miss Hebbley’s eyes were fevered, like the eyes of many patients I have known. She clearly has not been sleeping.

  I pressed her on the rumors she “claimed to have heard” and she had no answer, of course, other than to mumble something nonsensically about Madeleine Astor. My point was to challenge the paranoia at play in her mind. For now, I merely cautioned the stewardess not to spread rumors of disease on a ship. People might panic.

  As it stands, I have my suspicions that both Mrs. Astor and Stewardess Hebbley suffer from low-grade hysteria. I know firsthand how easy it is for this kind of thing to happen in a confined space with few distractions. Someone gives voice to a concern and before long, it’s on everyone’s lips. Paranoia is itself a kind of contagion. Humans are predisposed to it. I have long held that it is a learned behavior from our primitive ancestors, a defense mechanism. Cautious humans stay alive longer than incautious ones.

  I have seen similar cases in the asylums. There are many reasons why women succumb to hysteria and, while they sometimes try to hide behind stories of visitations by angels or demons or (popular now) visits from the dead, more often it is some shameful secret that has turned their minds against them. We are all, men and women, creatures of desires both good and bad. But everything has a price, and the price of indulging in that which is bad for us is often guilt; and too much guilt results in a sickness of the mind. We have poisoned our conscience, and something poisoned will need treatment one day—or it will rot.

  But the stewardess Miss Hebbley . . . She worries there is something wrong with her, I think. She will not admit it, but I saw her lips twitch and eyelids flutter when I told her the troubled mind can never know itself; that this is the sad truth of madness. For so many who are mad do not see themselves that way. I cannot guess what is behind her speculations. Looking into those frightened, haunted eyes, I could almost believe in demons and spirits myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “I like you in this,” Les whispered, close to Dai’s ear. “Though I’d like you better out of it.”

  It was a stupid line, Les knew, but Dai didn’t seem to mind.

  Les stood back then, and picked imaginary lint from the shoulder of Dai’s suit. “Anyway, don’t look so long-suffering. This’ll be good practice for when we’re in America, meeting with fight promoters. You need to go to a mirror and see how handsome you are.” Dai turned to look at himself, straightening his tight bow tie as Les ran down a checklist in his mind of the four marks he’d selected for the evening’s play. The past day had been a whirlwind of meeting Violet to slip into strangers’ staterooms and riffle through their belongings. He was afraid of mixing up his marks—there had been so many details to keep track of—that he made notes on a slip of paper. There was Henry Harper, a gadabout who lived off his grandfather’s largesse to travel the world. He and his wife were returning from a trip with an interpreter they’d picked up while in the Middle East, a handsome man named Hassab. Les scarcely needed to look twice at the detritus around the cabin to know what the two men had been up to.

  Then there was Miss Helen Newsom, the debutante who was afraid of her mother, and her lovesick beau, Karl Behr. The silver watch had been so beautiful, so touching—exactly what he would like to be able to give Dai one day, when he won his first big match in America, perhaps—that he couldn’t help but lift it.

  And then there was the old newspaper fellow, W. T. Stead.

  Dai turned back to face him. “What are you puzzling on about?” he asked, looking directly into Les’s eyes.

  Les shrugged. “Potential marks. I was just thinking about old Stead.”

  “The journalist?”

  Les nodded. “He’s made no secret that he’s afraid of drowning on board a big ship like this one. He’s told anyone who would listen that the newspapers ought to write about the dangers of sailing with too few lifeboats, or some such. Might be able to offer a clairvoyant reading, something to ease his mind, or—”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Dai took a step backward in their tiny quarters, bumping into one of the bunks. “Stead’s no fool, Les. And he’s not the type to sit quietly if he thinks you’re pulling a con on him. He’s a crusader, right?”

  There was nothing like telling Les something shouldn’t be done to make him dig in his heels. “He’s gullible, that old man. Believes in haunts and ghosts and all that nonsense. He’s the perfect mark for this, I tell you.”

  “No, Les. Not Stead.”

  “Then help me find another,” Les said as he worked on his bow tie, trying to tamp down his anger. “This is our one night to score. We have to make the most of it. Find me another while I’m working these plays.”

  Dai looked like he’d rather drink poison.

  “Get Violet to let you in one of the rooms, take a look around, and report back to me. Easy as can be. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I don’t want to be sneaking around people’s staterooms.” Dai looked down at the tips of his shoes, something he always did when he was having trouble deciding. “I might know of someone . . . or it might be nothing. I don’t know rightly—”

  “Tell me, and I’ll decide,” Les said, trying not to sound impatient and scare Dai off.

  “First of all, you’ve got that all wrong,” Dai said, reaching over to wrest the bow tie from Leslie’s hands. He took over fastening it around Les’s collar, and Les found himself both grateful for the help and for Dai’s gaz
e—the weight of it a welcome sensation. There was nothing so gratifying as knowing Dai was looking at him. Was with him.

  While he fumbled with the tie, Dai told him how he’d seen Mark Fletcher in the card room using his wife’s jewelry to cover his debts. How sad faced he’d been, trembling with guilt. Les had to admit, he was a little shocked. He’d pegged Fletcher as someone who played by the rules because he was afraid of being caught. The more he thought about it, he could see it: a barrister, used to trying to find a way around the law to further other people’s causes.

  “Well, well, well,” Les said. “I’d say that sounds promising. A guilty man with a rich wife.”

  “The man is struggling, though—”

  “If you didn’t want me to know, why’d you tell me? He’s perfect, Dai. And I swear to you, he’ll barely feel the sting.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Dai swung away from him with the raise of an arm like he wanted—no, needed—to punch something. There was no shortage of things to punch in that tiny, crowded room, but he somehow managed to contain himself. “Les, I’m sick of it, all the scheming and lying and cheating. There’s got to be a line somewhere.”

  “And I’m tired of you always being the Samaritan.” It came out before he could stop himself. “We grew up in the same neighborhood, Dai. You know what happens to Samaritans.”

  “Yeah: they get swindled by people like you.”

  That hurt worse than any punch he’d gotten from Dai. “You don’t like what I do—but I’ve done it for us.” He got up close to Dai again. “Everything I’ve done, it’s been to keep us going. We won’t be able to box all our lives. Eventually, we won’t be able to take a beating for a living. I, for one, don’t intend to die in the ring like some old workhorse dying still hitched to the wagon.”

  “All this lying and cheating and conning . . . I feel sometimes . . . like I don’t know you. Like I can’t trust you.”

  It was a blow from a cannon right to Les’s chest. “How can you say that? To me? After everything I’ve done—”