by Alma Katsu
He’d been a barrister himself. He should know.
He started, trying hard to concentrate and remember how the suitcases had been arranged in the compartments so he could put them back without arousing suspicion. Many were filled with clothing—so much clothing, especially Jack’s—but just as many contained bric-a-brac the Astors had picked up on their travels. Though after a minute, Mark realized it probably wasn’t bric-a-brac at all but expensive artwork and antiquities. He poked through the swaddled objects just enough to satisfy himself that the money wasn’t there. The locked cases he shook like wrapped Christmas presents to get a sense of what might be inside. He figured he could probably smash the lock or even cut through leather if he came across one that might be holding the money.
Eventually, he found what he was looking for in the bottom of a trunk, hidden beneath some ancient pottery wrapped in butcher paper. A plain wooden chest. Under the lid was a shallow tray containing papers (probably important but summarily dismissed) and, under the tray, he found what he’d been looking for: eight-inch-high stacks of American paper bills. All denominations.
He tried to estimate the haul as he filled his empty suitcase. Twenty thousand dollars? More, easily. Giddy laughter nearly erupted from his mouth. He’d never felt like this before, like he could walk on air. Like he was no longer mortal. He was untouchable. He would never be unhappy again. He hadn’t earned this money or won it, and so laying his hands on it was oddly unreal, as though it wasn’t real money.
But real or imaginary, it made him delirious nonetheless. He wanted to laugh until he cried, though the thought also terrified him. He didn’t want to know what would be at the end of the long tunnel of laughter.
He was halfway back to his stateroom, his mind dancing a jagged reel the entire time, half thrilled, half panicked, before he realized where he was and what he was doing. In a few minutes, he’d be back in his stateroom, hiding this suitcase from his wife. It occurred to him that he didn’t have to tell Williams the truth. He could take out half the cash first and split the remainder with the boxer. Or he could give the boxer a measly thousand dollars, tell him that’s all he could find—How would Williams know otherwise? The feeling of being in control—for once—left his head spinning.
This was how a professional thief thought.
He might as well get used to it.
He had to think like one, then. A professional would not keep the evidence on him, in his own room, where anyone might discover it, particularly Caroline. He couldn’t carry it with him while he looked for the boxer; what if it were discovered on him, a suitcase full of evidence? No, he’d have to hide it, the way men buried treasure in walls and hidden patches of forest floor, unconnected to him should it be discovered, deniable but safely tucked away where only he knew where it was.
The ship was vast and likely full of hiding places, but unfortunately these weren’t known to him. He simply hadn’t spent any time exploring. How awful it would be if the suitcase were discovered, say by a child from third class hiding from his parents? Imagine the hue and cry then. No, he had to think of someplace foolproof. Someplace not too far from his cabin so he could get the case quickly and without raising suspicion.
His mind went to the fire in the smoking room. It had been a funny little alcove in the room, fitted to make the most of the ship’s peculiar architecture, no doubt, but it had been deserted then—no one realized the room had been on fire, for god’s sake. It might be deserted now.
He fairly jogged down the alleyway, going as fast as he dared without drawing attention to himself. When he entered the smoking room through the side entrance, however, he was surprised to see Annie Hebbley sitting in one of the chairs.
That was odd. He never saw the crew sitting—never. It might even be a rule, now that he thought about it. Passengers were never to see the crew relaxing.
Her position was quite funny, as though she were awake, but clearly she was asleep. Poor thing. She must’ve been run ragged getting her passengers ready for the ball. He’d overheard a steward saying this very thing to Miss Flatley. “Worst day in all my time at sea,” he said, their heads bowed together so none of the passengers would overhear. It was probably all right to complain to one of the servants.
He was going to let her sleep so he could attend to the bag, when she suddenly stirred. Her eyelids fluttered. “Mark, is that you?”
It sent an icy finger down his spine. She had never called him by his given name before. Everything about her was different, her tone, the way she held herself. So much more casual, as though she were dealing with an equal. An intimate friend.
At the same time, there was clearly something wrong. Her words were slurred and mumbled. She rose but shakily, as though she had had too much to drink. Could she possibly be drunk? Drunk or not, she might see the suitcase. If questions came up later, she could testify as to having seen him with it. Panic began to fill his chest, flood his arms and legs. Run. Run. Leave it all, let someone else deal with the mess.
No, he had to keep his head.
He dropped the suitcase to his feet and took a step forward. “Miss Hebbley, are you all right? Do you need assistance?” He started toward her, arms outstretched, when she swooned, falling forward. It was all he could do to catch her before she fell. Holding her close, trying to bring her back to the chair, their heads drew near and he could not help but notice the scent of her hair—it was just like Lillian’s. An oil she’d mixed herself to smooth tangles, and left her smelling like lavender and oranges. He’d never smelled the like of it on another woman and certainly did not recall smelling it on Miss Hebbley before.
The way Miss Hebbley felt in his arms just now. Her precise weight. Her precise warmth. The gentle give of her flesh. The softness of her skin. Lillian.
She looked nothing like her. And yet, in this moment, she was so like Lillian that, if he closed his eyes, he would swear she was with him.
He did close his eyes, to keep his tears from falling on the stewardess’s face. He was hallucinating, he had to be. This damned ship, the damned journey. The stress of the robbery. The argument with Caroline. It was all driving him insane. Lillian was gone—and all the wishing in the world would not bring her back.
But for this moment, this one moment alone, the two of them without another soul nearby, he could have her back.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dai Bowen moved down the alleyway stiffly, feeling conspicuous as the sounds from the improvised ballroom fell away behind him. He was now three decks above the one where he should be, the noisy, stuffy cavern assigned to third-class passengers. Here, among the first-class cabins, everything was quiet and serene. Below, the walls were painted white and floors were barely varnished planks, well marked with spilled food and beer a scant few days into the maiden voyage. Here, the walls were polished mahogany, the floors carpeted. So heavy and rich, he could imagine being crushed beneath the weight of it all if the ocean should decide to have its revenge on these rich devils, pinned under an avalanche of luxury, helpless as he was dragged under the cold, unforgiving waves.
Every nerve in his body screamed out that he should not be here. Go before someone discovers you. His panic wasn’t justified; he knew enough passengers in first class to come up with an excuse if questioned, and besides, they were having a good time still at the fancy party; but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong there and that this excursion would get him into trouble.
When he and Les had come up here the other night with Violet, it had all seemed frivolous, exciting even. Sure, he’d been nervous then, too. But this was different. He knew now what a loose cannon Les had become.
He knew now that he had to stop him from going any further.
Trouble was, Les had disappeared on him. Which was what had set him into a panic to begin with.
The only thing Dai could think was that he’d gone in search of another mark. H
e was doubtless behind one of these doors, but the doors were silent. He couldn’t knock, hoping Les would answer. How would he find him? But he couldn’t wait; he had to talk to Les. Worry ate at him like acid. He wouldn’t last the rest of the journey at this rate; he’d climb the rails and throw himself into the ocean.
He started crooning in Welsh, a lullaby his mam had sung to him in the cradle.
Ni chaiff dim amharu’th gyntum
Ni wna undyn â thi gam
Nothing will disturb your slumber
Nobody will do you harm
Leslie would hear it, and know it was Dai.
But instead of finding Les behind one of the doors, Dai was surprised to find Les come around the corner a minute later, whistling, hands in his pockets.
“What are you doing, just taking a stroll?” Dai asked, alarmed.
Les looked just as surprised to see him. “As a matter of fact, I’m waiting for someone. Why are you here?”
“I was looking for you. To try one more time to talk you out of this crazy scheme of yours.” Dai clasped Les’s shoulders. “You have to stop this. Now. Before you’re found out and arrested.”
Les held a finger to his lips—ssh—and broke away, pulling Dai by the sleeve after him. He shoved Dai into the dark vestibule of a stairwell, where they would have privacy. “Are you mad? This is the most lucrative con I’ve ever done, and we’ll not see the likes of it again. It’s just a few more days, Dai. Then we’re off this ship and we’ll never cross paths with any of them again. Where’s your nerve?”
“What’s gotten into you, Les? We don’t need the money. We have enough to get us to New York. . . .”
Les’s laugh was grim. “Have enough money? You’re fooling yourself, Dai. Look around you. Are we staying here in first class with these swells? No—we’re crammed four to a room down in steerage. These people look down on us, Dai, though they’ve no right to. Aren’t we as good as them? Of course, we are. But you’d never convince them of it.”
“You’re pulling a con on them. We’re not as good as them.”
“Don’t be a fool. You don’t think they got to where they are by conning the rest of us?”
“These people never hurt you. They don’t deserve what you’re doing to them.”
“Oh, they deserve it all right. Maybe they haven’t hurt us, Dai, but they’ve hurt someone like us.”
“What if you get caught? You’ll go off to jail, in a foreign country, where we have no idea what will happen to you. You’ve gotten too reckless. I can’t take it anymore. I need answers from you, and I deserve them. Haven’t I given up everything for you? Left my family behind, my career? Willing to risk it all for your sake—”
“Don’t say it,” Les cut him off. “You don’t have to say it.”
An ache formed in Dai’s throat. “Is that because you don’t feel it, too?”
“Don’t be daft. I’m here with you.”
Dai felt a chill run through him, like the ague. He was feverish and raw and ready to be sick. “Are you though? Here with me? One minute you are, and then you’re gone again. Anything might happen. You could toss me over for that stewardess, or the first rich old lady who bats her eyes at you—”
A groan escaped from Les. He pivoted on his heel to face Dai. “You’re being stupid, Dai. We’re together, aren’t we? I’m with you now. Why does anything else have to matter?”
Because it did. It always mattered. He wanted to believe Les, but— “Everything’s a con with you. You say one thing and do another. You told me tonight what you were going to do—but I find you here, walking around first class whistling a happy tune! What’s that about, eh? Who are you conning, Les? Am I just another mark?”
Les wanted to get mad and yell in his face—Dai knew him well enough to know that, could see it in the flex of his muscles beneath his fancy new suit—but he held in his anger, somehow. “I found a better con. A bigger one. And it’s going off right now. That’s what I’m doing here, David Bowen. You’ve got to learn to trust me. You say you care for me, but how can you, if you don’t even trust me?”
“Do you really think I should trust you, Les?” Dai asked, his voice wavering. It was a true question, one he didn’t know the answer to.
“I can’t say what you should do, Dai. Probably, you should run far, far away from me. All I can answer is what I want.”
Dai held his breath. “And what do you want, then?” His voice came out a jagged whisper. Les’s hands were on his arms.
Les pushed him, gently, until his back hit the wall of the vestibule. His mouth was at Dai’s ear. “You.” The word brushed against his jaw, featherlight—a chill. Les’s lips found the spot just at the edge of his jaw where his face had been punched so hard once he hadn’t been able to eat anything but broth for three weeks. And his lips found their way to Dai’s.
The hunger of it was almost too much. Both their bodies shook with it. The scuffle was intense—the pulling at the wretched, strangling bow ties, the buttons. Dai swung him around so that Les was now the one against the wall. Dai was the stronger one, after all. Always had been, even if he didn’t always show it.
Just like Les didn’t always show what he was showing now—the baring of his soul. The insane connection they had; the way, in these private moments, he seemed to worship Dai, worship his body, crave it, become one with him. The way he’d get tears in his eyes. Dai knew no one ever saw Les like this. No one but him. This was the real Leslie Williams, and he was his—at least in the rushed, heated span of these minutes in the stairwell. He’s mine, Dai thought, tugging at Leslie’s hands, at his clothes, his teeth scraping Les’s tongue.
The heart wanted what it wanted. There was no arguing with it.
* * *
—
He leaned against the wall afterward, panting as Les arranged his clothing, making himself presentable again. Dai tucked his shirttails in, breathing hard, his whole body flushed. He was pulling on his jacket when he heard the clop-clop of a woman’s shoes on the metal treads, and looked up just in time to see that they’d been caught.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lucy Duff-Gordon had left the ball early. It was pleasant enough, but what could you expect on a ship, even one as nice as the Titanic? The room was beautifully appointed, true, but there was no formal ballroom. There was too much carpeting for a proper dance floor. The ceilings, while high for a ship, were too low to create the right dynamics for sound, and there wasn’t a full orchestra. The food had been good, lovely canapés, and the champagne passable, though diluted in a punch. She didn’t mean to be critical, but it came naturally to her, a businesswoman, always looking for ways to make things better. She would never say a word to J. Bruce Ismay, the chairman of the White Star Line, who had overseen the arrangements tonight, but it had been more like a dance held in a country vicarage than a proper ball.
Cosmo was having a grand time, however, and so she hadn’t bothered to try to pry him away. It wasn’t every day he got to shoot the breeze with the likes of John Jacob Astor and Benjamin Guggenheim. The company of those silly American society people set her on edge. Even Astor—he was a strange bird. Always dressed so fantastically, so showy. And wed to that girl, practically the same age as Astor’s own children. He was a man with no shame. It rubbed her the wrong way that her husband should be so fond of Astor, but then, her husband did a great many things that she couldn’t see the sense of.
To each their own. That was the unspoken agreement between them.
Lucy took the stairs slowly, preferring a back stairwell to the grand central staircase. On the grand staircase, she always felt rushed, worried she’d catch a heel on the carpeting and go for a tumble. On these back stairwells, you could take as much time as you wanted. No one was watching.
She couldn’t wait to get to her stateroom, to wrench off her shoes and put her feet up. She knew what was going on now,
after stumbling across those two boxers in the stairwell, and it always made her happy to know things that no one else did. There had been no robberies. The big boxer, red-faced, had confessed it all to her. He had been ridiculously helpless for such a strong man, barely able to get the words out. They were working a con, he’d explained, but no thievery—just a few stints at fortune-telling. They didn’t mean anyone harm, they were just trying to make a little extra money to start a new life in New York City.
It was disappointing to learn he wasn’t so heroic after all, after she’d touted him to the others. She’d like to expose the deception to her fellow voyagers. Throw it in their faces. They had been so worried about their valuables despite the fact that no one could prove that anything actually had been stolen. Guggenheim had been particularly vocal, but her husband suspected Guggenheim was just afraid of what the “burglars” might find in his cabin. And now this boxer confirmed they’d taken nothing but secrets.
Only a very stupid person would be so careless as to keep her secrets somewhere they could be easily found, like in a valise or hatbox or tucked in with their silk unmentionables. A valet or ladies’ maid could blackmail you just as effectively as a thief. Lucy knew these things, as one who had spent most of her adult life making sure her own secrets were well hidden.
There had been real fear in the boxer’s eyes when he asked if she was going to turn them in. She couldn’t, not two boys who shared the same secret as she. He hadn’t admitted this to her, but she could read it on his face. The way his eyes softened every time he glanced in the other boxer’s direction.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she told him before taking her leave of them, though she failed to say exactly which game she meant.