Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  Whomever the author was, they were clearly intelligent, very secluded, and obviously taking great care in not revealing who they really were. The oddly elongated hand in which they were written had proven to be a source of hours of irritating fascination, as it made it impossible for Langston to confidently determine the gender of the writer. In his frequently lonely state, he imagined that it might be a woman: perhaps a young, lovely, wishing-to-remain-anonymous cousin of Lyons. Or was it just a dowdy, dutiful secretary simply taking dictation? Perhaps someone in their own decidedly elusive way was just trying to provide him with some horrible truth; either that, or these were words written by someone just a few steps removed from Bedlam. The letters always started with the polite salutation Dear K. Langston, they contained the most cautious and at times cryptic phrases, and concluded with the thoughtful I grasp your spirit in the palm of my Hand as I wish you safety.

  Whomever the author was, they seemed genuinely concerned for his safety; whether they were fully sane or not remained to be seen. Still, Langston- a man not easily given to close friendships of any sort- believed himself to at least have found a friend in spirit.

  As for the kit, Langston had strictly forbidden himself to reopen the box upon his return to London. He glanced at the kit, which was now collecting a thin layer of dust as it rested on a nearby small table. He couldn't bring himself to even handle the box, and swore silently that his flat felt palpably warmer ever since he brought his strange discovery home. While most likely his sense of temperature had been altered by a considerable fluctuation in blood pressure, Langston's tired mind began to size up the mere presence of the kit as pure evil, radiating dangerous heat.

  Langston's next move was a moot point. Clearly he couldn't track down Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley outside the House of Commons, and publicly accuse them of vampirism. He would be laughingly dismissed, and restoring his journalistic credibility would be an impossibility. He knew that his next step depended entirely upon catching them in the act, a rather disheartening and quite likely impossible objective.

  The real news of the day in the London Daily Chronicle was that Britain, France and Russia had agreed to restrict whale hunting in order to prevent extinction. How on earth can I be expected, he surmised, to have my tale of fantastical terror taken seriously amongst studious articles that spell out the preservation of the environment, or the fight for human rights being waged by the suffragettes?

  As nighttime fell, Langston began to refresh some of the notes in his small diary by the light of a lone candle; the penurious Mrs. MacDowall had flatly refused to approve the installation of electric light for any of her tenants. Langston had compulsively memorized the contents of the kit to the point where it was not truly necessary for him to catalogue them in the pages of his diary, but nonetheless he proceeded. The crucifix, Langston believed, was made of ivory. The pistol, in very crisp working order and condition, came with four silver bullets with crosses on them. While Langston certainly did not consider himself a firearms expert, he easily identified it as being manufactured by Hollis & Sons, possibly .45 caliber. A mallet, decorated with holy emblems, lay alongside four mahogany stakes, and there were several small vials labeled holy water. Adjacent to the water was a tiny cloth sack that contained a garlic clove; Langston knew enough about European vampire folklore to be momentarily tempted to rub it into the keyholes of his flat. The inclusion of the copy of the Book of Common Prayer, for some reason, stirred the most apprehension and worry in Langston. In his nervous, exhausted state, the prospect of having to actually validate some of his skeptical Anglican beliefs seemed too enormous a task. Finally, the slightly yellowed handwritten note that reiterated the clue he'd been given regarding Bartholomew Gidley was tucked inside the prayer book- unnervingly, it seemed to bookmark the section including the Order for the Burial of the Dead.

  Langston allowed his mind to wander, trying to make sense of the mystery that had haunted him for so long, and questioning God- or whomsoever he allowed his higher power to be- why he had been chosen to shoulder such an unspeakably frightening burden. While taking an inventory of his own life's deeds, he certainly could not proclaim himself to be perfect, but he also could not find a satisfactory answer as to whether he was being punished for some spiritual shortcoming or oversight. He had often ruefully hypothesized a visit to a confessional would only result in a pious, comforting man of the cloth to become so horrified by a description of his plight, that he too might deem him to be, in fact, doomed. Staring into space, Langston permitted himself to let his hand wander close to the flame of his burning candle, letting its warmth sear his palm for only an instant before quickly withdrawing it. He then did something he had not tried since he was a child. He dipped his finger into the wet pool of wax that was forming just under the flame, letting it ooze over his fingertip and then watching it cool quickly and harmlessly on his skin. For nearly half an hour, Langston sought refuge in this odd ritual, and yet he found it strangely comforting, even going so far as to collect enough wax to draw a letter G (that resembled the wax seal on the anonymous notes) upon the surface of his table. G, as in 'G' for God, for if Langston's dark suspicions were correct- someone was indeed attempting to evoke a Masonic symbol on the seal of those letters.

  As Langston finished up his strange artwork, along with some of his research notes, his eyes wandered back over to the box itself. On the train back to London from Devon County, he had held the kit in his lap, never letting it out of his sight. His nervous sensitivities had convinced him that there was a warmth, even a mysterious low hum seeming to emanate from the box as he cradled it in his arms. It was a sensation he'd encountered some years before, as a lad growing up in Surrey.

  In 1894, he had fancied a young lady named Eva McGregor; she was a gentle spirit and always eager to please. Their short-lived romance, which ended when her family moved to Scotland, lasted long enough that he had confided in her he had been developing a curious interest in the occult. In a show of generosity that would remain a favorite sentimental memory, she promptly used what she had for a very small allowance towards the purchase of a ouija board. Young Langston was astounded by the gift, but shortly after acquiring it, the answers the board was providing to supernatural questions proved too frightening. Among other things, it had seemed to correctly predict a coal mine explosion in South Wales that killed hundreds. Langston proceeded to seal both the board and its planchette in a box marked DO NOT OPEN. He then placed the box in his parents' attic, where it likely remained, for all he knew.

  The vampire kit seemed to be its evil cousin- or was it? Langston took note of the fact these were all tools of protection from evil; for that reason alone he decided not to destroy it. He removed his horn rimmed glasses and gazed out his street-level window, watching the rain starting to fall, creating an almost halo-like effect around the gas street lamps of Brathway Road. He suspected that a slight frost could occur in the morning due to a recent cooling trend in the weather. His thoughts returned to his problems. He'd resigned himself to not acting on his dark knowledge until after the holiday, sadly thinking of his young nieces and nephews- and their disfigured mother, Nancy- wanting them to enjoy the delights of Father Christmas just once more, before the whole of Britain was quite possibly going to be plunged into total anarchy. He had debated whether to share his newfound knowledge with young Stanley Johns at the Chronicle, but he was deeply concerned that all such sensitive information should remain contained. Stanley, he felt, didn't deserve to be drawn in any closer to this ordeal merely for being helpful and trustworthy. He'd realized that the only true way of getting the MP and his secretary to eventually crack would be to officially make their acquaintance, and not skulk about the fringes of the political world hoping they would somehow reveal themselves, involuntarily or not. Langston's gaze returned to the scene outside his window. He wondered if the coming frost could provide a diffuse cover if he ever decided to surreptitiously peek into their windows, seeking out the devil in the
eyes of Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  June 4th, 1912

  The world's largest ship had disappeared into the depths of the North Atlantic less than two months prior to this rainy day in London. In the weeks that followed the disaster, England's capital city had been hit by some of its most violent thunderstorms on record, leaving the tens of thousands of those grieving wondering if even nature itself had lost its composure over the scope of the tragedy.

  For more than a month, the Royal Scottish Drill Hall in Buckinghamgate, Westminster, had been the scene of one of the most closely-watched and emotional tribunals in British history. Lord Mersey, the Grand Old Man of the English legal profession, had been pressed into service, this time heading the official Board of Trade inquiry into the sinking of the Titanic. He had been criticized somewhat for his handling of the investigation, at times appearing more inclined towards protecting the interest of major shipping concerns, rather than getting to the truth of why a ship that had been hailed as unsinkable now lay somewhere on the unreachable bottom of the Atlantic- taking enough people to populate a small town with it. Several surviving crew members had provided helpful answers to thousands of questions, but when the remains of the ill-fated liner were located decades later, much of their testimony would be called into question when it was discovered conclusively that the ship had broken in two; across the board, Titanic's crew members had insisted the ship had gone down intact. There also came a great amount of conflicting testimony from the ship's lookouts, Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee, regarding the presence of a haze on the ocean the night of the sinking; Fleet came across as especially gruff and defensive, while Lee seemed somewhat more forthcoming about what he thought he had seen. Meanwhile, only three passengers would be called to testify on what they had observed on a non-technical basis that fateful night- and they were all from First Class. None of the passengers who had publicly stated their eyewitness accounts of the ship splitting in half would see their words entered into the official record of the disaster.

  Lord Mersey, along with five other assessors, had been engaging their witnesses with a line of questioning that seemed to be designed with special emphasis on what nautical safety procedures should be in place going forward, rather than trying to repair what had happened in the past. The Scottish Drill Hall had been chosen as the site for the Titanic inquiry mostly because of its size. The magnitude of the investigation required enough room to house more than a hundred members of the bar representing the various interests involved, along with about a hundred members of the press. Another factor in choosing the Hall as the inquiry's venue was the daily attendance of at least a hundred spectators, most of them women. Lord Mersey, who at the age of 71 was experiencing a loss in hearing, complained about the poor acoustics of the spacious hall, and he wasn't alone. Indeed, vast portions of early key testimony were inaudible to nearly everyone in attendance. Eventually the proceedings were moved to another part of the building, where dark maroon curtains lined the walls, adding to the solemnity of the occasion.

  A witness being called to the stand would have seen Lord Mersey and his fellow assessors seated to his or her left. Immediately before the witness would have been the long tables where the attorneys and press reporters were seated. In the galleries above were the spectators, and just to the right of the platform was a painful reminder of why all had gathered there: a giant chart of the North Atlantic, and a 20-foot model of the Titanic, so large that it took up half of one side of the Drill Hall. Even in miniature, the sheer size of the Titanic would startle those who gazed upon it.

  The witness standing before hundreds on this day was J. Bruce Ismay. As Chairman and Managing Director of the White Star Line, a part of him hoped fervently that the British Board of Trade would be hesitant to find him or his company negligent, but his recent experience in America had shattered him. The press there had completely savaged him as the villain of the sinking- a coward, an inhuman monster who had stepped into a lifeboat while thousands of others remained trapped on a sinking ship... his sinking ship. He hadn't seemed to do much to help his cause by offering testimony in New York and Washington, D.C. that seemed infuriatingly vague:

  “I have no knowledge of that myself.”

  “I could not answer that.”

  “I was simply a passenger on board the ship.”

  At the start of his testimony at the United States Inquiry just days after the disaster, Ismay had offered his full cooperation, insisting he had nothing to hide: cynics pointed out that of course he didn't- it was all at the bottom of the ocean. As the highest-ranking official of the White Star Line to survive the disaster, Ismay was already in a corner; he had lived while women and children perished, and the patsy had been cast. The previous inquiry, led by six ambitious American Senators, had left him exhausted and shattered, and disgusted by a press that seemed to accuse those innocent of any crimes as being guilty with a callous impunity. He was resolved not to lose his temper, as he had allowed himself to do at one point in America, but he recognized with a dose of fatalism that some of the proceedings were likely to be brutal. And as distasteful as the notion was to him, he felt he must now clear his own name in light of horrid allegations made by the American press. There had been printed reports alleging some ghastly conduct on his part on board the Carpathia, the steamship that had come to the rescue of those who had survived the disaster. Now, as he found himself once again the subject of unwanted attention, Ismay stood tightened and ill at ease. He could not bring himself to even look at the model of the ship that had been his very reason for living, a towering accomplishment that had at one time made his heart soar. Instead, with its bow pointed towards him, Ismay felt as though he was on the receiving end of a giant spear.

  As a once confident and proud man who had until very recently operated at the highest levels of the rarified atmosphere of international shipping, this Ismay was a pale, curious sight at the British Inquiry. His dark grey suit and black tie seemed only to emphasize his thin frame, and he appeared only slightly improved from his red-eyed and tense countenance in the United States less than two months before. As the Attorney General for England and Wales, Sir Rufus Isaacs, prepared to begin the line of questioning, Ismay felt his stomach lurch as he realized that the hundreds of onlookers would now be focused entirely upon him alone, most of them cupping their hands to their ears in an attempt to make out his words in the horrible, hollow acoustics of the Drill Hall. Making matters worse, he realized that while on the stand he would not be able to distract himself with blank sheets for scribbling, as he had done so in America, trying to calm himself occasionally as the American Senators took hours of his testimony.

  The Attorney General first addressed the Commissioner, Lord Mersey. “My Lord, before this Inquiry resumes, I desire on behalf of His Majesty's to once again express our deepest sympathy with all of those who have to mourn the loss of relatives or friends amongst the passengers, the officers or the crew of this ill-fated vessel.” There was a low rumble as the reporters immediately began transcribing, and several spectators responded with emotional murmurs. “My Lord, this terrible disaster in mid-ocean, because in mere magnitude it exceeds any calamity in the history of the mercantile marine, has in a profound and marked degree touched the heart of the nation. Whilst not desiring in any way to anticipate the result of this Inquiry, I cannot refrain from paying a reverent tribute of warm admiration to those whose manful devotion to duty and heroic sacrifices for the safety of others have maintained the best traditions of the sea.” Lord Mersey said nothing in response, only silently lowering his head in apparent agreement. “My Lord, before proceeding further, I believe my learned friend, Sir Robert Finlay, would like to add something to what I've just stated.”

  Sir Robert, a British lawyer, doctor and politician representing the White Star Line, leaned forward. “My Lord, I desire to associate myself on behalf of my clients, the owners of the Titanic, with the expressions which the Attorney-Gene
ral has used on behalf of the Government. There are no words that can express the sympathy which everyone must feel for those who have suffered from this deplorable calamity. I shall add no more, but again, the sympathy which we feel on this occasion with those who have suffered is really beyond any expression in words.”

  Finlay's soliloquy echoed for a moment in the Drill Hall as the reporters' mad scribbling and the clearing of throats of many in the crowd continued. Attorney General Isaacs allowed a respectful beat to pass, before turning once more to Lord Mersey. “My Lord, with reference to the Inquiry which your Lordship is now about to recommence, may I say it is the earnest desire of the administration that a searching and thorough inquiry should be made with the object of ascertaining as fully and as precisely as possible the circumstances surrounding the casualty. I desire to add- in the public interest- every possible source of information and all available evidence will be placed before your Lordship.” Sir Rufus promptly turned his attention to the witness.

  “Mr. Ismay, are you a member of the firm of Ismay, Imrie and Company?”